


Tackling Albion

by sachspanner



Series: Camelot F.C. [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Football | Soccer, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachspanner/pseuds/sachspanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is a rabid football fan, and Arthur the lead striker for the team he salivates over. Fate, and a teensy tiny bit of slash dragon conspire to bring them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've decided to move my completed fics from LJ to here (I'm sachtastic on LJ, not a plagiarist). Read and enjoy.

Football is the love of many lives. Those who follow it do so to the point of religious devotion, but for those who do not have football in their lives, it is simply kicking a ball. To a small, dark-haired boy called Merlin Emrys, football was the only thing in the world he cared about, because it meant he got his dad all to himself. Football meant fizzy drink, with a side of ‘don’t tell mum’. Football meant riding on his shoulders through a crowd of people singing songs he wasn’t allowed to know the words of. Football meant an invitation into a world full of testosterone and beer, shouting and swearing, and it was dizzying.

It was the 25th May 1998, and a day that would be seared on Merlin’s memory for the rest of his life. He had never been to London before, catching the train and changing at Birmingham along with a brace of other Camelot fans. Decked out in red and gold, they sang all the way down. This was the most important game in the club’s eleven-year history, a play-off, a one-off decider to see if they would play top-flight football next season or not.

En masse, they descended into Euston tube station. The Underground was terrifying. Merlin had just turned seven, and the crowds of people rushing in all directions were staggering. Balinor gripped his son by the shoulders.

‘It’ll be alright,’ he nodded.

Merlin looked up into his father’s eyes, and believed him.

Two hours later, when referee Eddie Wolstenholme blew the whistle to signal the end of the first half, Merlin was glum.

His dad had been taking him to watch Camelot play for as long as he could remember, and he had never seen them lose. Of course, they had lost, and more often than not in spectacular fashion, but Merlin had never seen it happen, so he could imagine that it just _didn’t_. Only this time, it was happening right before his very eyes, in the most important match of all their lives so far, the playoff final. 1-0 at half time.

“Merlin?” his dad asked. “You coming toilet?”

Merlin couldn’t take his eyes off the pitch.

“No. I don’t want to miss the match.”

“You won’t; we got fifteen minutes ‘til the restart.”

“Dad. If Camelot win, they play in the Premier League. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

“This your superstition again?”

Merlin wrinkled his nose.

“Merlin!” his dad exclaimed. “You’re seven years old! I thought you grew out of that? Camelot don’t win just because you’re watching. It’s coincidence!”

Merlin sulked. He knew it was true, because he’d seen it.

“Well, Charlton’s winning now,” Balinor continued, “How d’you explain that?”

“I dunno.”

“Most days, Merlin, you got answers for everything. You dunno?”

“No.”

“I can tell you, Merlin. It’s ‘cause Charlton finished fourth in the league, and we finished fourteen points behind. Which, Merlin, is a lot. They beaten us every time we played them!”

“They won’t this time.”

“’Cause you’re watching?” Balinor sighed kindly. Merlin nodded. “Right, did you want some chips? A pie?” Merlin shook his head. “Right,” Balinor nodded. “You’re concentrating.”

He ruffled the small boy’s unruly black hair. Merlin grinned.

“You know what Charlton don’t have that we have?” Balinor asked.

“No. What?”

“Uther Pendragon.”

Uther Pendragon was the greatest player Camelot had ever seen. Even as a young man, his goalscoring ability had helped Camelot to win the Division Three title, and earn promotion to the second tier of English football. Time had passed, of course; Division Two had become Division One after the creation of the Premier League in 1992, and Uther now played the role of the talismanic captain. The Premier League was the Holy Grail of English football, and by reaching the final of the Division One playoff, Camelot had come within a whisker of it.

Just this match, against Charlton, stood between Camelot and their first taste of top-flight football.

When Eddie Wolstenholme blew the whistle for the start of the second half, Merlin was ready. Of course, he had needed the toilet, but that could wait. As Bill Shankly, legendary Liverpool manager once said, "Some people believe football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that."

Merlin’s dad had told him that, and like almost everything his dad told him, he believed it unquestioningly.

Barely five minutes into the second half, Camelot scored, and less than ten minutes after that, they made it 2-1.

“Can we go to the toilet now?” Balinor asked.

“Dad!” Merlin exclaimed, as if that was the worst thing anyone could possibly ask.

Twenty minutes from time, Charlton scored.

“No way!” Merlin cried, standing on his fold-out chair. He was careful not to lean too far back; he had learnt early on in life that he could quite easily fall down the back of the seat if he wasn’t careful.

“Merlin, get down! You’re in people’s way!”

“They’re in mine!” Merlin countered.

Within two minutes, the score was back to 3-2. Balinor silently wondered if perhaps, there was something in his son’s claims. This was certainly the most exciting game he had seen Camelot produce all season.

Merlin, now back on his seat, was fidgeting. He was only small; maybe he should have gone to the loo? Maybe he wouldn’t have missed anything…

In his distraction, he missed Charlton’s third goal. Shortly after, the whistle blew. 3-all.

“Eh?” Merlin asked.

“What?”

“Well, they drew. Who goes up?”

“We have to have extra time first.”

“Extra time?”

“Ar. Two more fifteen minute halves. And if there ain’t a winner after that, penalties.”

“What’s penalties?”

“I hope you never have to find out,” Balinor chuckled, his humour tinged with the funereal.

Soon, extra time had begun. Merlin was feeling really uncomfortable now. But then Uther Pendragon was on the ball, and he felt his spirits lift. He had seen Uther move like that before…

Within seconds, everyone around him was on their feet, shouting. He scrambled onto his chair, concentrating hard on the top corner.

“Come on!” he screamed.

At that moment, Uther unleashed his wicked right foot. As if in slow motion, Merlin watched the number fifteen on the back of Uther’s shirt unfold as he straightened up. He watched the ball sail through the air, and he watched a look of dismay leak onto the goalkeeper’s face as he realised he was well and truly beaten. The net rippled, just where Merlin thought it must. The stadium erupted.

“Fuck yes!” Balinor shouted. He then looked down at his son apologetically. Merlin wasn’t stupid. Balinor kissed his son on the top of his head. “You,” he said, hoarse from shouting, “are magic.”

Merlin beamed.

“Can we go toilet now?” he asked, only just about speaking above the level of the deafening crowds.

It seemed he hadn’t been the only one with that idea. The queue stretched well outside the door to the lavatories, and the small boy fidgeted anxiously. Five minutes later, they had barely progressed in the queue, and a deafening roar sounded from above them.

That could mean anything. The line vibrated, every man wanting another to go and look, to see who had scored. Nobody moved, and nobody new joined the queue. It was tense, the kind of tension that cannot be replicated. This was playoff-final-stuck-in-the-bog-someone-scores tense. There are no synonyms.

It was only when Merlin and his father returned, blinking, to the light of the open air, that they saw the score burning down at them from the big screen in the corner of the stadium. Four-all. And now, with less than a minute left to play, Charlton were on the attack.

Richard Rufus, the Charlton defender, played the ball into Clive Mendonca. Mendonca, already on a hatrick, had his fourth goal in his sights, sidefooting the ball… Balinor already had his head in his hands. It was all over. He shut his eyes to the sound of cheers.

When he opened them again, it was to a sight he could not believe. Pendragon was kissing Gorlois Levy, the Camelot ‘keeper, on the forehead; he had apparently pulled off the save of his life.

In fact, thirty thousand Camelot fans, which was probably all of them, could not quite believe how Levy had pulled off such a stretch. But Balinor knew. He flicked one of Merlin’s prominent ears to get his attention and winked at him. The boy grinned back.

Moments later, the whistle blew, signalling the end of extra time, and the beginning of the terror that is a penalty shoot-out.

“The managers pick five takers,” Balinor explained. “They take it in turns to try and score past the opposition ‘keeper. Whoever scores the most wins.”

“What if they score the same?”

“Sudden death.”

Merlin looked alarmed.

“Basically, whoever misses first loses,” Balinor clarified.

Both teams scored all five penalties. The feeling of nausea that arose from the first penalty had crescendoed to a fully-fledged need to vomit. Balinor didn’t want to watch, but he had to.

Merlin had to watch for a different reason. Charlton were good, he knew, but Camelot were his team. He couldn’t let it happen. So he didn’t. Mysteriously, Steve Jones put the ball way over the bar, and the game was over for Charlton Athletic.

The red-and-gold half of the stadium exploded. Merlin had never encountered such a noise in his entire life. Nearly thirty thousand Wolverhampton-born men, and just a few women, suddenly leapt to their feet, hugging and hanging on to each other.

Merlin at that age could not understand how his dad seemed to be friends with nearly everyone in the stand. Later he would realise that none of them had ever met, nor would again. This was just a shared passion, driving them over the edge, and breaking down the barriers between them in a way that only euphoria can.

Uther Pendragon hurled his captain’s armband into the crowd triumphantly, and went to pick up a small fair-haired boy from the touchline. For Camelot F. C., things were just beginning.


	2. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is eighteen and unemployed, and needs to come up with a plan, and that plan is customarily football-related. He lands a job that will take him into the same arena as the son of his childhood hero, and is more than a little excited.

It had been a week since Merlin’s inevitable and comprehensive failure in his A-levels had crushed his hopes of going to university with best friend Gwen, and forced him into the job market.

Wolverhampton, the only town he had ever known, was not the best place to be inexperienced and unemployed. Yet, somehow, he had pulled it off, securing not only a job, but one of the best jobs he could possibly dream of. He returned home from his interview with triumph in his step, bounding up the stairs to the flat.

“Put the telly on, Merlin m’lover,” Hunith called from the kitchen as her son closed the front door behind him.

“On it, mum.”

In the last eleven years, most of Merlin’s growing had been upwards, producing a tall and not exactly muscular physique. He had yet to enjoy that last spurt of testosterone that would fill out his shoulders and give him a full beard, and as such had a youthful look about him.

He kicked off his battered trainers, and flung himself at the sofa, turning the television on in the same well-rehearsed movement. Since leaving college with neither job nor plan, watching television had become his specialist subject.

“I got a job.”

“You didn’t!” Merlin’s mother ducked her head around the door. She was wearing washing-up gloves, and foam dripped from her hands onto the carpet. She ducked away again a second later; Merlin expected she had gone to remove the gloves so as to talk to him properly.

“Ar. Assistant groundsman at The Castle.”

“A castle?” Hunith asked proudly, shuffling over on slippered feet to sit beside her only child.

“No, mum.” Merlin shifted awkwardly in his seat. “ _The_ Castle. Where Camelot play.”

Hunith stood up at once.

“Oh, you and that bloody football team!”

“Mum, do you have any idea how many people applied?” Merlin protested.

“You mean, do I know how many daft clarnets like you there are in this town?”

“It’s a job! There’s a recession on! Do you know how lucky I am to get this?”

Hunith nodded, her expression softening.

“Plus,” Merlin continued, “it means I get to go to every home game.”

Lost for words, she shook her head and returned to finish the dishes, glancing at the picture of her husband in the hallway.

“You did a good job, Lee,” she whispered. It had been nearly ten years since he’d died, but he certainly lived on in Merlin’s love for the game.

Back in the living room, Merlin’s blue eyes were on _Midlands Today_ , the local news broadcast.

_“Interesting news for fans of Camelot Football Club after manager Uther Pendragon confirmed that his son, who has been on loan at Derby County all last season, will play first-team football for Camelot when the new season starts in August. Eighteen-year-old Arthur, who scored seventeen goals for Championship side Derby in all competitions, could prove an interesting addition to the side.”_

Uther’s face, older than it had been, but somehow still as handsome, appeared on the screen mid press-conference, with media flashbulbs winking.

_“Arthur’s a good young player, and I’m not just saying that ‘cause he’s my boy. He had a good run on loan at Derby last year, and they wanted him to stay another season. But I think he’s ready now; he’s doing very well in training and should join the first team come August.”_

The shot changed again, this time to a journalist filming a piece outside The Castle.

_“Many fans will remember Uther Pendragon as the man whose right foot propelled Camelot to the Premiership eleven years ago. Though they have remained in the top flight ever since, the prospect of relegation has always dogged them, and many will look to the young Arthur, as Uther’s heir, to be their salvation. But, with the weight of the family name on his shoulders, can Arthur Pendragon live up to expectations?”_

Merlin hoped so. Camelot fans expected little of their team, which had never finished more than half way up the table. Silverware was an impossibility. Most years they tended to veer violently towards relegation before Merlin managed to scrape enough money together to go to a few matches and save their season.

He wasn’t sure if he believed his old superstition any more. He only ever went to matches he knew Camelot could win, after all. He never risked the big games for fear that he had been wrong all these years and that he was just like everyone else.

Arthur Pendragon was most definitely not like everyone else. He was a footballer, no, a striker, in the most competitive league in the world. He was handsome, rich, and famous. Finally, he was wearing the most famous jersey in the history of his club, the number fifteen, wearing the most famous name in Camelot across his back: PENDRAGON.

~~~

“Congratulations, Arthur,” Uther murmured into his ear as they shook hands for the cameras. Closeness was not something he shared with his father; as long as they worked together, their bond would be purely professional.

That had been one of the things that had made him reluctant to sign for Camelot. If he kept his father at a distance, he could pretend that he was just a dad, a loving father who had brought his son up alone.

The truth was that Arthur had essentially brought himself up alone, his father’s love of football taking precedence in both their lives. It was the only way Uther knew how to parent.

It wasn’t that Arthur wasn’t grateful, he was. His father may have been known as an excellent player, but he was also an excellent coach. Without that, Arthur wouldn’t have been where he was then.

He had everything. Football was his everything. It provided a weekly salary that others would be glad of earning in a year. It provided fame, the envy of men and the adoration of women.

Still, he was dedicated to the sport. He was good, but Uther was the best. If he hadn’t become manager of Camelot once it became clear his career was at an end, there would probably have already been a statue of Uther Pendragon standing at the gates of The Castle.

That was a lot to live up to, and Arthur had given up a lot. He devoted himself to maintaining his fitness, avoiding alcohol, drugs, and most importantly, women. At the age of eighteen, handsome, muscular, rich Arthur Pendragon was still a virgin. When he made the decision, he thought it might have been difficult, but even as time wore on, he never craved the women who flocked to him when he did, occasionally, frequent bars.

He couldn’t miss what he’d never had, he reasoned.

Camelot was the club he had supported as a boy, watching from the sidelines with some of the other children. He didn’t really like them, and he certainly didn’t talk to any of them any more. All he had wanted, as a child and an adult, was his father’s love and approval, and Uther had seemed so keen for him to sign. It seemed like his father was finally proud of him.

In reality, although Arthur did not know it, Camelot F.C. was in ruins, and it was all Uther’s fault. Stubbornness and a disagreement with the club’s owner meant that the usually generous Mr Draig had refused to release any funds to buy players with. Arthur was a last choice, and a desperate one.

~~~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his first day at Camelot, Merlin has a run-in with Arthur. The blond has a little too much on his mind, though, with the pressures of the pitch and the kindness of his friends difficult to handle. Merlin, however, is only too happy to accept the kindness of his coworkers.

Merlin was probably a little too excited about his first day in a job that basically involved turning little bits of turf over with a piece of gardening equipment he didn’t know the name of. It was mentioned in work training, but he may not have been listening fully.

Mr. Dagonet, Merlin’s boss, hurled a fluorescent orange jacket in his direction.

“What’s this?”

“Steward’s jacket. What you do is, you stick it on, you line up with all the other stewards, then sit on the edge of the pitch facing the crowd.”

He clapped a hand on Merlin’s shoulder jovially.

“Even you couldn’t fuck it up.”

Merlin wasn’t so sure about that. In any case, he was a little miffed that he wouldn’t be watching the match at all. He’d just sit at the sidelines and look into the crowd as if the only thing he cared about wasn’t going on behind him.

Still, he would do his duty for Camelot, and earn his minimum wage.

~ ~ ~

Arthur stood in the tunnel, listening to the strangely distant roar of the crowd. Of course, he had been in situations like this before, and in bigger stadia, but this was different. This was Premiership football, but more than that, these fans were his people, the fans of the club that he himself had supported as a child.

Naturally, that was because his father was their leader, but what’s the problem with that? Children look up to their fathers. That’s why football was huge in England, and all around the world, because though not every father was Uther Pendragon, most at least gave their kid a football shirt or kicked a ball at them. To a child, that’s like seeing their dad lift the World Cup.

Being Welsh, the closest Uther had ever come to a World Cup was accidentally spilling a champagne flute over “Big Phil” Scolari, who managed the Brazilians to their 2002 World Cup win. Though, that team was incredible. Even Captain Kirk could have managed that team to a World Cup- and he probably couldn’t even play.

These were just some of the unhelpful thoughts running through Arthur’s blond head prior to kick off. As the announcer began reeling off the players’ name, he felt his legs begin to move and he was jogging out of the tunnel with everyone else.

_“In goal, number one, Daniel von Blumenthal!”_

Cheers. Some players were touching the sign hanging over the exit of the tunnel. Some were crossing themselves repeatedly. Some were repeating phrases to themselves. Arthur didn’t have a lucky ritual. Should he have?

_“At right back, number two, Owain Hughes!”_

Cheers. He trotted out onto the pitch, taking in the enormity of it. It was a pleasant day, perfect for football, but that didn’t change anything. Arthur had a lot to prove.

_“At left back, number three, Kai Ordner!”_

Cheers. Arthur isn’t nervous. He doesn’t get nervous.

_“In central defence, number four, Gareth Knight!”_

Vague cheers. Poor Gareth was probably nervous. Only turned sixteen last week.

_“In central midfield, his older cousin, number five, Gwaine Knight!”_

Noticeably more enthusiastic cheers. Obviously a famous surname wasn’t going to get Arthur anywhere with this crowd.

_“Right of midfield, number seven, captain Leon Bors!”_

Vast cheers. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, here it was…

_“The lone striker, number fifteen, Arthur Pendragon!”_

The biggest cheer yet. Oh God. How was Arthur going to live up to that? He wanted to puke. One of the stewards turned to look at him as if he were some kind of zoo animal.

“Eyes on the crowd, minimum-wage,” he barked. Wasn’t sure the kid heard him. Wasn’t sure he wanted the kid to hear him.

 Merlin heard him alright, and turned back to the crowd feeling the better man.

_“In defensive midfield, number sixteen, Luke Butler!”_

Cheers back to an acceptable level. Arthur casually glanced at what he would be up against. Robert Green was in goal for West Ham, and possibly England at the next World Cup. Arthur told himself that this was nothing to worry about. If the media were to be believed, none of the England goalkeepers could catch a cold.

_“In central defence, number nineteen, Percy Fisher!”_

Cheers beginning to die out as people got bored. Christ, should Arthur really have yelled at that steward? No wonder people get pissed off at footballers’ wages, if they go about flaunting them.

_“In midfield, number twenty, Stephen Valiant!”_

Cheers suddenly reinvigorated. Last year, Val was Camelot’s top scorer. Oh God, Arthur was terrible at football! Why was he here? Why was he berating the staff?

_“In midfield, number thirty-three, Bedóier Maréchal!”_

Cheers, surprisingly from West Ham and Camelot supporters alike. Arthur saw the smile on Bedi’s face as he jogged past. He had a reputation as a nice guy, and West Ham fans forgave him when he transferred to rejoin best friend Kai at Camelot last season.

A few minutes later, the match kicked off.

Nearly two hours later, it was all over.

~ ~ ~

Hunith looked up from her magazine as Merlin came in from work.

“Well? Did you win?”

“No,” Merlin said, with a tinge of astonishment in his voice.

Why was he astonished? Camelot were crap. He had known this all his life. Why was he now expecting them not to lose 2-0 on the opening day of the season?

“Never mind. How was work?”

“Mediocre. Though, one of the players spoke to me.”

“Really? That’s nice.”

Hunith wasn’t really interested, but Merlin was glad she at least pretended.

“Not really,” he mumbled, and went to call Gwen.

~ ~ ~

“Hello?” Gwen’s voice answered.

“Hey,” Merlin replied.

“Oh hi. How are you?”

Her voice was tinged with a little hesitation, suggesting she had no idea who was on the end of the line at all and was hoping for clues.

“Gwen, it’s Merlin. Get Caller I.D. like everyone else.”

“Oh, hey Merlin, sorry!”

“I’m hurt you don’t recognise my voice. We’ve been friends since we were six.”

“Your voice was a little different then,” Gwen countered.

“Less manly?”

Merlin heard the sound of stifled laughter.

“Ha. Less something. How was the first day at work? Saw the score; bad luck.”

“It was a bit nothing-y to be honest, Gwen. Atmosphere’s as good as ever, but it doesn’t half drive you mad having your back to the pitch.”

“You had your back to the pitch?”

“I was stewarding. Apparently six quid an hour is too much money for someone only doing one job.”

“You poor duck,” Gwen soothed, not at all sarcastically. “Talk to any of the players?”

“One talked to me, in a manner of speaking.”

Gwen squealed.

“Oh, who?! Oh Merlin, you have to introduce me!”

Though she would never admit it, Merlin suspected that Gwen’s greatest ambition was to become a WAG. Her brother Elyan lived away from home, playing for the Manchester United youth team, and she was constantly badgering him to introduce her to people.

“Arthur Pendragon.”

Another squeal.

“Oh my God, Merlin, you’re definitely introducing me!”

“Calm down, Gwen. He’s a prick. When I say he spoke to me, I mean he yelled insults for no adequately explainable reason.”

“Oh.”

Gwen, always trying desperately to see the best in everyone, flailed.

“I’m alright, Gwen. I’m sure there’s a reason for his attitude. I mean, fifteen grand a week must make you fucking pissed off.”

“Fifteen grand? A week?” Gwen asked, with a combination of incredulity and admiration.

“Apparently. Jesus. He doesn’t even play for England.”

“I think he’s Welsh, Merlin.”

~ ~ ~

Arthur darted between the fluorescent cones. This was what he knew, he could do this. He sprinted up to the ball, planning his route past the imposing figure of Percival Fisher.

Percy had his shoulders squared, jaw set, raised to his full, terrifying six foot five. Psychology was half his game. The other half was power.

He came barrelling at Arthur, closing the gap between them, boots thundering on the dry ground. Arthur didn’t change pace, didn’t change course. He was a professional footballer, and this was nothing new to him.

He almost knew what Percy would do before he did it, flicking the ball to his left and sidestepping as the defender made the lunge forward. Imposing as the big man was, his build was his only downfall, overbalancing as he attempted to collect a ball that Arthur was already dribbling towards the goalline.

This was what Arthur was capable of. He had an excellent first touch, could outmanoeuvre the toughest central defenders and could put the ball wherever he wanted from thirty yards if the mood took him. Tens of thousands of braying fans, though? He hated how it affected him. No matter how many hours he did on the practise field, he was never going to be able to recreate that atmosphere, that feeling that he was about to mess up something that really mattered to him.

He collared Percy after training. They knew each other from their youth team days. Percy was three years older, and had broken into the side two years before.

“How did you cope, Perce, your first few games? The expectation?”

“What expectation?” asked Percy. “I was nineteen, just filling in for Tom Malory when he was out with an ankle injury for a couple of weeks. Then he transferred to Leicester, and all of a sudden I was in the first team.”

“Oh.”

“Different for me, anyway. They never expected me to score, like they want you to. To be honest, I messed up my first few matches. Still, nobody notices. That’s the thing about being in defense. Shared responsibility.”

None of this made Arthur feel any better.

“Look,” Percy said, “All I’m saying is, I didn’t expect to score, and nor should you. You’re our only striker, bar Geoff, but even he knows he’s not got the pace he needs any more. Just, forget about scoring. Do the other stuff first, then you’ll forget how important it is. Then, scoring goals will be easy.”

“I hope so,” Arthur sighed, unlocking his Mercedes.

“Really. Listen, did you want to go for a drink on Saturday? We usually go out, a few of us, after the match.”

“Ah. I don’t really drink.”

“Just come along anyway. Get yourself a lemonade. I’ll cover, say it’s gin and tonic. No worries.”

“Cheers.”

“I’m not sure I can stop Gwaine calling shots, but I’ll give it a go.”

Arthur smiled, and slid into the car.

~~~

The match against Wigan was 0 – 0 at half time. The run of play had been entirely in Camelot’s favour; Arthur was just misfiring.

Kai had no words of comfort.

“Here, right now, you are shit. You need to get better, or we will lose, and it will all be your fault.”

Bedi cut in.

“I think what Kai is trying to say is-”

“I know what I am trying to say, Bedi. I am saying that when I am passing to Arthur, he is not scoring. Yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Good man. Better next half!”

Kai smiled, clapped Arthur heavily on the shoulder, and walked away.

“Sorry about Kai,” Bedi grinned. “He is my best friend, but sometimes he acts like what you English would call an utter tosspot.”

He said the last three words in a hideous exaggeration of BBC English. Arthur smiled weakly.

“Actually, I’m Welsh,” he corrected.

“My condolences.”

In the second half, Arthur missed from an open goal, skying the ball from six yards out. The _Sun_ the next morning summed it up: _“BOY BLUNDER”_

~ ~ ~

“Shots!” shouted Gwaine, throwing himself at the bar.

Percy shrugged apologetically as Arthur gave him a panicked look.

Still, maybe alcohol wasn’t the worst idea. It wasn’t his body letting him down, it was his mind. Maybe it could do with a good battering.

“A toast,” Gwaine declared, holding the shot in his left hand aloft, “to excellent defensive play.”

Percy feigned embarrassment as Leon clapped him on the back. The shots went down.

“And,” Gwaine spluttered a little as the alcohol burned his throat, “to getting Artie shitfaced on his first night out with the lads.”

The right-hand shots went down. Arthur wasn’t convinced he should be drinking to that, but the club was nice, the guys seemed friendly and, well- once in a while couldn’t hurt, could it?

“I’ll get a round in,” he offered. “What’ll it be?”

Arthur’s memory was a little patchy after that. One bar became another, became a third, and suddenly he was dancing. He normally hated dancing, but he felt quite good at it now.

“You’re actually drinking gin, aren’t you?” Percival shouted over the music.

Arthur nodded.

“You’re mad. Mad,” Percy shook his head in astonishment. “You don’t drink, and then you drink gin? At least tell me they were singles.”

Arthur shook his head, “Better value for money.”

“You have got to slow down,” Percy laughed. “I’ll never forgive myself for bringing you out!”

Arthur was having a brilliant time. So, apparently, was Gwaine.

“I’m just getting a WKD for…” he turned to the blonde on his hip.

“Liz,” she reminded him.

“Liz. Anyone else want a drink?”

Percival shook his head, raising an eyebrow at Arthur, who agreed it was probably for the best. In fact, he could do with a sit down.

Leon had already gone back to the hotel, and Arthur strongly suspected he’d be heading back shortly. He weaved through the dancers towards a booth, and Percy followed, clapping an arm on one shoulder and instead steering him towards the exit.

“You could do with some air.”

Percy was right, of course he was. Air was what he needed. All of a sudden, though, the cool air hit Arthur like a wall, swiftly followed by overwhelming nausea, and he wasn’t sure why he agreed to come out.

“Oh God.”

“Let’s find you somewhere to be sick,” Percival suggested, guiding him through the smokers and behind a dustbin.

“I’m going to. Percy, I’m going to.”

“I know, A.P., I know. You’ll feel better after, I promise.’

All of a sudden, Arthur was being sick, keeled over, eyes streaming. Percy stood over him, placing a hand on his back.

“Keep going, Arthur. You’re doing great.”

Arthur didn’t feel like it. He knew this was why he didn’t drink. People put themselves through this every weekend, and he couldn’t understand it. It quite clearly didn’t do any good.

Percy’s mobile went off.

“Gwaine, we’re outside. A.P.’s just being sick. No, it’s not a tactical, he’s done. I’m going to call for a taxi, you coming or staying out? Alright. Alright. See you tomorrow.” He returned the phone to his pocket, “Arthur, I’m going to call for a taxi. Gwaine thinks he’s in with this Liz, and good luck to him. How you holding up?”

“I think,” Arthur spluttered, “that’s the last of it.”

“Right. Believe me, I’ve done this more times than you have, and that was just the start.”

Arthur groaned.

“It’ll be alright, A.P., just, eventually. And stay down for now, there’s a photographer.”

“Fuck. Have they seen me?”

“Seen me, not seen you. Just get the rest of it out of your system, I’ll call the taxi.”

Arthur felt terrible. Not just because of the alcohol, but also because of Percival. He was just so… nice. Which meant trouble for Arthur.

The comfort of Percival’s warm hand at the small of his back was a reminder. The fact that he’d kept an eye out for him all night was a reminder. The fact that he was shielding him from the photographer, pressing against his side, was a reminder.

It reminded him of something he’d tucked to the back of his mind, something he hated. Something that didn’t make sense, made him afraid, made him feel like a child. Every act of kindness a man ever showed him, every touch, just brought to the fore a secret he had buried a long time ago.

He wasn’t a virgin out of pure strength of mind. He was a virgin out of necessity. Because women did nothing for him. They could be beautiful, slim, blonde, tanned, and he wouldn’t be moved. Then again, should a man ever look at him with any sort of kindness or warmth- he took it to heart.

Arthur Pendragon was a Premiership footballer. These feelings had implications, and they weren’t compatible with his career.

Miserably, he let himself be steered into a cab, back to the hotel and, finally, to sleep.

~~~

“Two halves of Carling, Morgana,” Merlin smiled.

“Do you have any I.D. on you?” asked the landlady.

“Morgana. You know I’m eighteen. I had the party here.”

“I’m supposed to ask for I.D. if you look under 21. And you look about six years old.”

Merlin rummaged through his wallet.

“I’ve got… a Boots advantage card and an expired library pass.”

“Merlin,” Morgana looked him in the eye. “I’m winding you up. Here are your drinks.”

“Oh. Cheers!”

Merlin took a mouthful of one, and handed the other to Gwen, who had just got off her shift at the bar.

“So, what’s the special occasion?” she probed, leafing through her newspaper.

“What? You think so little of me.”

Gwen looked up at the television, and got her answer.

“League Cup second round draw? This is something to do with Camelot?”

“I’d watch at home but my mum’s got one of her programmes on.”

“Ah, I get free booze, I can’t complain.”

“That’s your last one,” Merlin warned. “I can’t afford it.”

“Maybe if you didn’t spend all your savings on tickets to see Camelot?”

“I don’t! And I don’t have to now. My insane obsession is working for me.”

“You mean, you’re working for it, and it is paying you?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Camelot players out on the lash,” Gwen pointed to a picture at the back of the paper. “Who’s that?”

Merlin scooted round.

“The one standing up is Percival Fisher. I can’t tell with the other one- nice arse though. He might not even be in the first team. What does the article say?”

“It’s just a picture. Caption reads, ‘Pints of Camelot: Percy Fisher comes to the aid of a teammate in distress after a night out in Wigan.’ Here, you take it.”

Gwen took out a tangle of wool from her handbag.

“What’s that?” Merlin asked.

“I’m taking up knitting before I go to uni.”

“Lovely,” Merlin nodded noncommittally. “Why?”

“I need skills, Merlin. Nice skills. Cooking, sewing, those sorts of shenanigans.”

“Those aren’t shenanigans, Gwen.”

“I’m not actually going to do any of it, you understand. We’ll have a maid. But it’ll be nice for my husband to know that I can.”

“So, which husband is this?” Merlin smirked.

“The inevitably rich and handsome one,” Gwen responded.

Merlin squawked, seemingly randomly.

“What?” Gwen asked. She needn’t have asked; Merlin’s eyes were fixed on the box in the corner.

“Camelot are at home,’ he said. ‘To Swindon? Who are they?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

~ ~ ~

Arthur wasn’t in the mood for Stephen Valiant right now. It was half time against Manchester City, and they were 1 – 0 down. What with all the money that had been poured into the City side, it was to be expected, but Arthur still hadn’t managed to score, and it bothered him.

“Well,” Valiant asked, “did you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Valiant was thicker-set than the typical central midfielder, and he used his build to lever opponents off the ball. He frequently picked up a yellow – and the occasional red – card for his efforts, but he didn’t tend to let it faze him. He was a northerner, born and brought up in Greater Manchester, but had shown a talent for betrayal early on in his career when he joined Liverpool at the age of 21. Three years later he moved to Camelot on a free transfer- though he tended to play down that aspect of his career.

“Bad news, Val. Get it over with.”

“Right, the bad news is that you’re playing like a pensioner with no legs.”

Valiant waited for a laugh that never came.

“Good news?” Arthur suggested.

“The good news is that I’m being subbed on. You might get some service.”

Arthur knew that there had been nothing wrong with the balls played into him by Gwaine or Bedi. Why his father tended to play five in midfield was beyond him. His role as striker tended to be a little lonely. Not to mention the expectation!

He represented Camelot in the Premier League. They were the youngest team, established in 1987 after Wolverhampton Wanderers succumbed to rising debt and the crumbling Molineux stadium was demolished. The local council realised that many people, mostly working-age men, seemed to have lost their reason to exist once the club went down.

So Camelot became their reason to exist. The goals they scored on the weekend became their reason to exist. Arthur, the inexperienced, lonely striker, was failing.

The match finished 1 – 0.

~ ~ ~

Come Tuesday, Merlin had his head in his hands and an aching back from sitting pitchside for far too long. Even after extra time, the supposedly easy cup tie against Swindon was 0 – 0.

Swindon did not have a long footballing history, or indeed a history of any kind. It became a place for trains to be repaired travelling from London to Bristol during the Industrial Revolution, and when trains went out of fashion, Rover built a factory for pressing car panels. Before long, Honda got in on the game, and come 2009, Swindon had the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe and the lowest rate of car crime in the UK. Its only moment of any sporting significance came in 1969, when they beat Arsenal 3 – 1 in the League Cup final, thanks largely to the contributions of a man called Don Rogers.

Arsenal went on to become champions of Europe the following season. Don Rogers now sells trophies for a living. Arthur wondered how that compared to a footballer’s wage- it looked like a possible alternative career to loathed striker.

Uther took out his pad of paper.

“Right. Stephen, you’re first, then it’s you, Leon. Then Arthur…”

“No dad, I can’t.”

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t, Arthur?”

“I’m just not in my stride at the moment.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Uther spat. “Right, well then it’s you, Mr. Maréchal.”

“Call me Bedi, Mr. Pendragon. Everyone else does.” Bedi then added, “even my mother. She gave me the name Bedóier. You think she’d use it, right? Wrong.”

The team shared a nervous half-laugh.

“So then it’s Gwaine and Kai. I pray to God it doesn’t go to sudden death because then we’ve got you, Percy, which is fine, but then there’s Arthur. And Arthur couldn’t score if he walked into a red light district in a suit made of fifty pound notes. Could you, Arthur?”

Arthur saw the disappointment in his father’s eyes and shook his head. He just didn’t want to be the one to mess this up.

He hadn’t played a whole month yet, and already he could see his name on placards in the crowd. _Arthur, give us a goal_ , read one. _Jog on, daddy’s boy_ , read another. Public opinion on him seemed to be a mixed bag at the moment, somewhere between pity and loathing. Either way, it wasn’t good.

For the second time in his life, Merlin was sat in a must-win match as both sides scored all five penalties. This was killing him. It had been bad enough watching. Not watching made him feel like he was going to pass out. He looked at the faces in the crowd. Most of the spectators were white as sheets, the singing that had rung out so loudly during ordinary time had given way to the roaring emptiness of nervous tension as thirty thousand people held their breath.

The crowd exploded with joy once again as Percy planted the first sudden death penalty in the top corner where no ‘keeper could ever reach.

Swindon captain Gordon Greer made the long walk to the penalty spot. Merlin’s left shoulder itched. If he scratched it with his chin, he could see this penalty, because it was _killing_ him not to watch. He tried to get the timing right. He saw the eyes open wide, the jaws drop, heard the tiny thud of boot on ball, turned his head to look…

The ball pinged harmlessly off the post.

Camelot had won, but it didn’t change the fact that this match was supposed to be a formality. The Camelot players began to congratulate each other, shaking hands with their defeated opponents, but Arthur was not a part of any of it. He disappeared down the tunnel without saying a word.

~ ~ ~

“I saw you,” said Will, pulling his hi-vis over his head.

“Saw me what?” asked Merlin innocently, though he failed to realise that the best way to sound guilty is to feign innocence.

“You watched the penalty miss.”

“I did not. I had an itchy shoulder. I was scratching it with my chin.”

“You had two free hands.” Will looked him up and down for a moment, “Why are you being so defensive?””

“Am I?” Merlin gabbled. “I’m not being defensive, I mean, what do I have to be defensive about?”

“Right there, that’s being defensive. Evasive, even. At first, I thought you were taking a sneaky look at the pitch. Now, I’m not sure.”

Merlin bundled his hi-vis into his locker. He looked Will in the eye.

“Okay. Promise not to laugh.”

“On my absentee father’s life.”

“I’ve never watched a game that Camelot have lost.”

The corners of Will’s mouth twitched, but to his credit, he did not laugh.

“So, what you’re saying is that you’re basically magic?”

Merlin looked at Will and pulled a face.

“No. But it’s like a superstition. If I don’t look at the pitch, it’s like I haven’t done my bit for Camelot.”

“Everybody feels like that, Merlin. It’s half of what being a fan means.”

“I know,” smiled Merlin. “Don’t tell me you’ve never glanced over your shoulder.”

Will looked Merlin in the eye, a smile forming in the corner of his mouth.

“I have,” he conceded. “Do you want to go for a drink?”

Merlin’s eyebrow twitched involuntarily. Was this a blokey drink or a _drink_ drink?

“We could catch the third round draw,” Will explained.

Ah. A blokey drink.

“And then get to know each other a little better,” he continued.

Or maybe not.

~ ~ ~

“Man United at Old Trafford?” Merlin asked himself in quiet disbelief as the draw came onto the screen.

“We’re fucked,” Will smiled jovially. “Especially without you watching.”

“Shut up,” Merlin laughed. “Drink your Guinness.”

“I think I will. How’s your half of Carling?” Will smirked.

“What does that tone of voice mean?”

“That tone of voice thinks you should have got a bigger drink.”

“I’d prefer to be in control, thanks.”

“Really?” Will asked, eyebrow raised.

 _Right_ , Merlin thought, _this is definitely flirting._ He just smiled and took a small sip of his lager.

“That’s it,” Will announced.

“What?”

“I’m getting shots.”

“No, Will, you have no idea what you’re doing!”

“Merlin, I assure you…” Will paused predatorily. “I know _exactly_ what I’m doing.”

~ ~ ~

Another home match, another scrappy game and another piss poor performance from the man in the number fifteen. The home fans were livid.

Arthur tried to block out the noise, block out the words, but it wasn’t going to happen. It went on and on, never changing, keeping to the irritatingly catchy tune of _Puff the Magic Dragon_. Of course, the lyrics were abysmal, but that’s because they were made up on the spot by angry fans and sung until they gathered enough voices for Arthur to hear them.

_“Arthur Pendragon ain’t his daddy; he couldn’t score a fucking goal if the ‘keeper was a tree… Arthur Pendragon ain’t his daddy; he couldn’t score a fucking goal if the ‘keeper was a tree… Arthur Pendragon ain’t his daddy; he couldn’t score a fucking goal if the ‘keeper was a tree…”_

The referee’s whistle signalled the end of the game; 1 – 0 to Hull. Arthur began his trudge down the tunnel alone.

Merlin watched him go. Of course he had heard what people were singing, what people were shouting, what the papers were saying. Camelot were lucky not to be bottom of the league, as they were the only team not to have scored a single goal. It was Arthur’s fault.

He already knew it though. He didn’t need it to be shouted from the stands or from the back pages of the tabloids. Maybe he was an arrogant, overpaid prick. But Merlin felt sorry for him.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~


	4. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined to prove Merlin wrong, Arthur ups his game, only to be taken down a peg by a conniving teammate. After Arthur feigns injury, Merlin is called in to provide the remedy: tea, sandwiches, a blanket and a crap park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mentions of real people are fictionalised versions, and are not intended to represent them in any way. They just occupy the same role in this universe as ours.

Hunith pulled a large tray of biscuits out of the oven, and caught Merlin’s eye.

“Don’t touch. Those are for Gaius; I need you to take them round to him later today.”

“Gaius? Since when is he back in this country?” Merlin asked. His uncle was a sports medic and had spent much of the last eight years working with football clubs in Germany and the Netherlands.

“Since August. He’s getting old now. He can’t be hanging around in Amsterdam at his age or he’ll have a heart attack.”

“Gaius?” Merlin asked. “Not likely. I’ll have a heart attack before he does.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Hunith admonished, “the way you exert yourself. Who was that the other night, by the way?”

Merlin froze.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re taking about?”

“Come off it, Merlin. Nice girl, was she?”

“Uh… yeah.”

Of course, Will wasn't a girl, but he was nice. So it was only half a lie, Merlin reasoned.

“Pity you didn’t introduce me,” Hunith sighed, pulling washing out of the tumble dryer. “I would have liked to meet the girl who wears Camelot boxer shorts.”

She held up the incriminating evidence. Merlin looked from the shorts to her face and back again. He could always say they were his?

“And before you say they’re yours, I know your size. Don’t forget who does your shopping.”

Merlin had always wondered how he was going to tell his mother that he was bisexual. Sometimes he wished he was gay, because at least then he had a position of certainty. He may as well tell his mother that he didn't know what he wanted. That was public perception after all. Either that, or that he was depraved, or that he was just following a fashion.

None of these things was the case. He just couldn’t find a difference in having a relationship with a man or with a woman. Yes, the mechanics weren’t exactly identical, but the end result was the same.

“Mum, I’m bisexual,” he said.

“You’re what?” Hunith responded.

“Bisexual.”

“Like, half-gay? Very modern of you. So what are my chances of grandchildren?”

Merlin shifted awkwardly.

“I’m eighteen. I’m not thinking about that yet.”

“I can assure you that I am.”

“I can see that.”

For a moment, they stood in silence. Then Hunith put the washing down and pulled Merlin into a hug.

“I don’t care, you silly sausage. What do I want grandchildren for when I have a half-gay son whose emotional stability hasn’t improved since he was five? And I mean that,” she kissed him on the forehead, “in a good way. Don’t go getting serious on me now.”

She propped the washing basket on her hip and wandered off to find the ironing board.

“Bisexual or not, you’ll still have to take those biscuits to Gaius,” she called over her shoulder.

“Where is he nowadays?” Merlin asked. His mother shuffled back into the room wearing an expression of unconfined glee at knowing something Merlin didn’t.

“Oh, you’ll never guess!”

“He’s working at Camelot, isn’t he?”

Hunith’s face fell.

“Yes. How did you guess that?”

“You wouldn’t have asked me to guess otherwise.”

“Sometimes, Merlin, you’re so clever that I wonder how you managed to fail three A-levels. Then I remember that you spent the whole of study leave in a mad panic because Camelot were in the reservation zone.”

“Relegation zone, mum.”

“Either way, those biscuits need to be in The Castle’s medical centre at twelve thirty.”

Merlin smiled. He was looking forward to seeing Gaius again.

~ ~ ~

Merlin knocked on the door that read ‘Medic’ and burst in without waiting for a reply.

“Gaius, I brought you biscuits. Don’t worry; I didn’t make them… oh.”

“Just leave them here, Merlin, can’t you see I’m with a patient?”

Merlin could; it was Arthur Pendragon. Shirtless, but it could have been worse.

Arthur recognised Merlin from his first match, and felt guilty enough to attempt to make up for his earlier behaviour.

“No, Gaius, he can stay. Merlin, is it? I’m Arthur.”

Arthur held out a hand from where he sat on the bench having his shoulder examined.

“I know,” said Merlin coldly, shaking the offered hand.

“You’re a steward, right?”

“Oh, so you do remember.”

Arthur didn’t like the way that Merlin saw right through him.

“Remember what?”

Gaius left the room to fetch some machine or other. Merlin waited until he had gone.

“You, Pendragon, are an absolute arse.”

“What?”

“I know, and you know, that you’re only talking to me now because you feel guilty that you yelled at me on my first day. You yelled at me because you thought you were better than me.”

“Hold on a minute!” Arthur protested.

“No, I’m still speaking. You thought you were better than me then. But look at you now. You’ve messed things up. You’re not good enough to play for this side.”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth in disbelief.

“Tell Gaius I had to go somewhere, would you?” snapped Merlin, and left.

Arthur still couldn’t believe that had happened. He was now glad that he’d yelled at this kid Merlin, because he obviously deserved it. Idiot. He’d show him.

~ ~ ~

Show Merlin he did, or rather he imagined that he did. Either way, he had at least made himself far more popular with Camelot fans than he was with Blackburn fans.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a brilliant result for the team, but it had been a hell of a spectacle. Fuck that, it’d been a hell of a way for Arthur to break his duck.

Arthur found himself being ushered into one of the tiny interview rooms where he was handed a bottle of champagne. A man wielding a microphone introduced himself.

“Guy Mowbray, _Match of the Day._ ”

~ ~ ~

Merlin ought to change the channel, or go to bed. He had been out looking for more part-time work all day and was absolutely knackered. He considered calling Gwen, but realised that it was Freshers’ week, and she was undoubtedly pissed.

The familiar blare of the Match of the Day theme made its way from the box to Merlin’s ears. Oh, here they were. Today’s results. He still didn’t know the score from the Camelot game; after going down 3 – 0 before half time, he suspected that he didn’t want to know. But he also couldn’t be bothered to find the remote.

The usual drivel came up first. Manchester United beat Spurs, Chelsea beat Stoke, Liverpool beat Burnley. Merlin noted with a smile that local rivals West Brom had gone down 4 – 3 to Manchester City. Then, the familiar crests of Blackburn Rovers and Camelot F.C. appeared on the screen.

 _“Anyone commenting on the half-time scoreline at Ewood Park today could have been forgiven for thinking that it was a foregone conclusion,”_ began Gary Lineker. _“However, anyone following the recent form of Camelot was in for a bit of a surprise.”_

He did his trademark smile-and-nod at the camera, and it cut to a V.T. of the kick-off.

_“Good afternoon, I’m Guy Mowbray. Most people expect these two teams will be fighting for survival at the end of the season, so these early clashes are really important. A slip here could mean the difference between seventeenth and eighteenth place, and that is all the difference in the world.”_

Merlin smiled inwardly at the tendency for football commentators to lean towards the superlative when describing games. It was this, he expected, that put people off, the seemingly insane passion and overreaction to events.

Ugh. Three goals, three avoidable goals. Merlin was indeed surprised. He knew Camelot were bad; he didn’t realise they were this bad.

_“It’s not even half time and people are leaving the stands. I’m not surprised- it looks like it’s all over.”_

The video cut to the beginning of the second half, and a little box in the corner told Merlin that Pendragon had been substituted on for Monmouth.

_“A change then for Camelot, Geoff Monmouth coming off and Arthur Pendragon coming on. This is a move that reeks of desperation; Pendragon hasn’t scored a goal for Camelot yet. Is this really the time to bring him on, when surely the best plan would be to play deep and try and minimise the damage? We’ll see.”_

Cut to later in the match.

_“Ordner, running up the wing, plays it in to Valiant, who plays it back to Bors. Bors now, moving up the left-hand side, crosses it into Pendragon, who… scores! A faultless volley, the ‘keeper never stood a chance.”_

The video cut again.

_“And it’s Maréchal, the French international, with the long ball in… Valiant… Gwaine Knight… back to Valiant, who strikes… corner. Bors will take. Bors plays it short to Pendragon, who looks like he’s trying to dribble it into the box. There are a lot of bodies in there, I don’t know if he can…and he’s scored! All of a sudden, Arthur Pendragon has put Camelot right back in the game.”_

The video cut again, this time to a shot of the fourth official holding up a red number 2. Merlin was sat on the edge of his seat.

_“There it is, two minutes of added time… and Camelot are on the attack. Hughes, who crosses to Maréchal, who wrongfoots the defender… and that’s a free kick to Camelot, surely. Yes, the ref’s given it. Gwaine Knight lines up the ball in surely what will be the last kick of the match. He hoofs it into the box and… it’s Pendragon! A hatrick for Arthur Pendragon! You wait a month for a goal and three come along at once. Well, I have no idea what’s changed, but Camelot fans will be hoping it stays that way. And there it is, the final whistle. Blackburn 3, Camelot 3.”_

Merlin couldn’t believe it. Pendragon had played incredibly to score three goals in forty-five minutes. That just didn’t happen in football. Not unless you were amazing. The man in question appeared on the screen, sweaty and tousled and carrying a bottle of champagne.

_“Arthur Pendragon, your first hatrick, and your first goals for Camelot… what happened?”_

_“It’s been tough for me, these first few weeks, adjusting to the standard of play, but hopefully now I’ve found my role. I just want to keep scoring goals.”_

_“Something’s obviously changed your outlook, and I’ve got to ask… what was it?”_

_“I knew the fans weren’t happy, that the guys weren’t happy. The other day, one of the staff really ripped into me, told me I wasn't up to it, and to be honest I just wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to show him, I wanted to show the fans that I am good enough to be here, and that I deserve this champagne.”_

_“Arthur Pendragon- thank you.”_

Merlin walked over to the set and switched it off.

~ ~ ~

Before kick-off against Fulham, Arthur took a jog around the perimeter of the pitch. He could pretend that he was just warming up, but really he was looking for someone. Finally, he spotted the dark hair and characteristic ears.

“Proved you wrong, Merlin.”

 _You’re still a tit,_ thought Merlin, ignoring him.

The blond striker jogged away again. Will glanced sideways at Merlin questioningly.

 _Tell you later,_ Merlin mouthed. Will nodded.

Twenty minutes in, Arthur put Camelot ahead. Curiously, his goal celebration brought him quite close to Merlin, and the steward could see him out of the corner of his eye, punching the air and beating his chest. His teammates gathered around him before dispersing- all but one.

“Easy, Penny,” spat Valiant, “there are eleven people on this team, you know.”

Merlin’s jaw dropped. Yes, Pendragon was a dick who didn’t know what he was saying half the time. But Valiant did, and he just said that to deliberately burst the other man’s bubble. What good would that do the team? Kicking a man when he’s down is bad sportsmanship. Kicking a man when he’s up is shameful.

Merlin was hardly surprised when Pendragon did not return for the second half.

Gaius was surprised; his eyebrows said as much when he explained to Merlin and Will after the match.

“The thing is, there was nothing at all wrong with him. Kept complaining about some tightness or other, but I couldn’t find anything. I’d ask you to keep an eye on him, Merlin, but I could see that you two didn’t get on.”

“That’s an understatement,” Will breathed as Gaius walked away. “What was that business before the match, anyway?”

Merlin ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully.

“I’m not sure now. I thought he was just being an arrogant prick, but now I don’t know.”

There was a distant look in Merlin’s eyes that Will didn’t quite like.

“Well, I’m off,” he chirped, slinging a rucksack over one shoulder.

“Eh?” Merlin snapped out of his daze. “Not coming for a drink?”

“Not tonight, no. I'm not a man to tread on anyone's toes. Night.”

“Night,” Merlin responded, and returned to his thoughts. He had barely registered what Will had said, and instead his thoughts turned to the young Pendragon. He muttered to himself, “What is Pendragon playing at? He thinks that if he scores he somehow gets one over on me. This makes him a prick. Only… only he isn’t. Valiant is, though. Valiant said something, and Pendragon got himself subbed off. He says he’s injured, but he’s not. How does it make sense?”

“Does it have to?” a voice responded from the gloom at the end of the corridor. An old man with a strong jaw and thin nostrils stepped into the light.

“Mr Draig!”

Merlin wasn’t sure whether to bow or curtsey. This man was the chairman of the club; his family had earned a lot of money over the years, and with his children dead, he had nobody left to give it to. So he had poured it into the club. This man was the only reason Camelot hadn’t gone down in smoke years ago.

“I wish people would call me Kilgarrah once in a while, but my first name is such a mouthful,” he smiled softly. “The young Pendragon. He won’t play?”

“No,” Merlin shook his head.

“Then you must help him.”

“Help him?” Merlin almost laughed. “He hates me.”

“I doubt that. Camelot won today.” The two statements were seemingly unconnected.

“They did.”

“And you weren’t watching?”

“No, I was stewarding!”

“It wasn’t an accusation, boy.’ He paused for a moment, “I knew your father.”

“You did?” Merlin hardly remembered his father. He didn’t realise before the age of eight that he ought to have memorised every last detail.

“You’ll be glad to know that you look nothing like him,” he smiled. Merlin joined in. “He told me that every time you watched a match, Camelot won. Is this still true?”

“Yes,” Merlin laughed, expecting that the old man was joking. “Only now I’m a steward, I have my back to the pitch every home game.”

“I guess you’ll have to find another way of making Camelot win,” Mr. Draig hinted mysteriously, disappearing into the shadows once more.

“What do you mean?” Merlin asked the darkness, but no answer was forthcoming. Not for the first time in his life, he felt a little bit mad.

~ ~ ~

“Merlin,‘phone!” shouted Hunith from the balcony, where she was overwatering the plants.

Merlin bounded out of his room, skidded across the kitchen tiles and picked up the ‘phone. Caller I.D. told him that it was Gaius.

“Merlin Emrys speaking, how can I help you?”

“Ah, Merlin, it’s you. Good.”

“What do you need?” he sighed.

“There’s a tenner in it for you.”

“I’m not twelve any more.”

“Fine.”

“I’m not saying that I don’t need the money, Gaius, I do. What is it?”

“Well, it’s one of the players, he says that he’s injured…”

“I can guess which one,” Merlin stated, rolling an apple across the worktop.

“Yes, Arthur. The thing is, I don’t know what to do with him. I just thought, you’re his age, maybe you could lift his spirits a little?”

“You want me to babysit a Premiership footballer?”

“No, not exactly… well, essentially yes.”

“Ten pounds, you say?”

Fifteen minutes later, Merlin was punching the code into the staff door and tripping down the steps to the medical centre.

“What are you doing here?” asked Arthur petulantly.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m here for physio.”

“You don’t need it.”

“Oh yeah? What do I need?”

Merlin opened the satchel slung over his shoulder and held out some items for Arthur to see.

“A radio, sandwiches, a blanket, tea and… the Molineux Grounds. They wouldn’t fit, so I left them where they were.”

“Once you’re quite finished with the crap jokes? I’m not coming.”

“If you don’t, Gaius tells your father what you’re playing at.”

Arthur looked up at Merlin sulkily.

“Fine.”

~ ~ ~

“So, why the Molineux Grounds? As if I didn’t know. This is what happens when people let a club die, blah, blah, blah.”

“That’s not why we’re here,” Merlin snapped. The blond was beginning to get on his nerves.

“Why then?”

“It’s just a quiet place. This is the most shit park in Wolverhampton; nobody ever comes here. You can listen to the radio here without little kids licking it.”

Arthur smiled.

“This is a crap park.”

“I take it you know the history?”

“Who doesn’t? Wolves ran out of money, the council refused to bail them out. The club died, the stadium was demolished, the people of Wolverhampton were lost. Then a man called Kilgarrah Draig set up a little club called Camelot, and eleven years later, with my dad at the helm, they reached the Premier League.”

“Why did you think I came here to tell you that?”

Arthur was silent.

“Don’t pretend you don’t feel guilty,” Merlin chided, tuning the radio.

“What’s that for?”

“Listening to the football.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Arthur stood up, threatening to walk away.

“Come on, Arthur. Today, they’re just Camelot, and we’re just two blokes listening to the radio in a shit park on what was once holy ground.”

“You should write dialogue for British underdog films, you know that. Two blokes from a council estate in the Black Country go on to save the world and get the girls.”

“Ha. Except there’s one guy off a council estate and one guy who’s so posh his mother was flown to Wales by private jet to give birth?”

“I get lost in the details,” Arthur smiled, unwrapping a sandwich as the match kicked off. “How do you know that, anyway?”

“How does anyone know anything these days? Wikipedia.”

“You looked me up on Wikipedia?”

“Camelot signed a new player; what’s a fan to do?”

“I wasn’t signed as a new player; I extended my contract and for the first time didn’t sign a loan deal. I thought you’d know that.”

“I did. But your explanation is boring.”

They lapsed into silence, just listening to the match. Arthur stopped feeling like Camelot were somehow his responsibility. He had needed the day off, and if when he was away everything crumbled, maybe it was someone else’s fault.

Crumble it did.

“Pissing useless,” Merlin cried after the third Sunderland goal bounced across the line.

Arthur laughed bleakly, and lay back to stare at the grey September sky. It was one of those overcast days that still manage to be warm, a little disconcerting but not unpleasant.

“Oh, you taking a nap now? This not enough of a rest for you?” Merlin looked down at Arthur with his knees tucked into his chest.

“What’s your problem?”

Arthur was still determined to be a bullish prat, it seemed.

“I just feel uncomfortable sat up here while you’re down there.”

“Well,” Arthur patronised, “come lie down here?”

Merlin sat up on his knees, seemingly still debating the issue.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Arthur wasn't sure. The idea of Merlin lying next to him brought up other ideas, and he didn't really know how he felt about them.

“Stop being strange, Merlin, and just lie down for Pete’s sake.”

Merlin lay.

“Christ, you’re weird,” Arthur breathed through gritted teeth.

“And you’re a dick,” Merlin retorted.

Arthur turned to look at Merlin with an expression somewhere between disgust and confusion.

_“Stephen Valiant now, inside the area… oh, and that’s a dive, no doubt about it, the defender never touched him… oh my word! The referee’s given it! He’s given the penalty!”_

Both Merlin and Arthur sat up.

_“And Valiant will take. You know I hate it when players claim they’ve gone down injured, but the moment it comes to taking a penalty, they spring up like nothing ever happened? Why is that I wonder? The referee blows his whistle and… he’s missed it! That ball went a clear five yards wide; how has he managed that!?”_

_“All you can say there, Alan, is that Lady Justice was obviously smiling on Sunderland today.”_

Both Merlin and Arthur crumpled to the ground in disbelief and disappointment.

“He missed,” Arthur stated the obvious.

“The man’s a wanker, anyway,” said Merlin, after a considered pause.

“He is indeed,” nodded Arthur.

After another pause, they began laughing.

“God, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke,” smiled Arthur.

“Pity he wasn’t genuinely injured.”

“True,” Arthur thought for a moment. “You know what we call him, me and Gwaine, when he’s not around?”

“Hit me.”

“Valerie.”

Merlin chuckled softly.

“Pathetic, I know,” nodded Arthur, “but he is an absolute cock.”

“He calls you Penny to your face.”

“Nobody else does. They call me Artie or AP. Everyone calls him Val. Which is still a girls’ name.”

“Giving a girls’ name to a cock. The irony.”

“It really gets to him,” Arthur smiled sardonically.

“He should learn not to take it too personally.”

“Why? It is personal. See, he wishes we would call him Steve or Stevie.”

“But you won’t?”

“No chance. Not now we now that’s what he wants to be called.”

“Harsh.”

“He deserves it.”

When it came down to it, they were a couple of blokes listening to a football match on the radio and complaining about work. Two utterly normal blokes, sitting in a crap park scattered with the concrete remnants of a football stadium, a temple to normal blokes.

Camelot lost 5 – 2, and they barely even noticed.

~ ~ ~

Arthur walked across Wolverhampton to where he’d parked his car. He’d have to pass his flat on the way, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving his Merc somewhere overnight.

He’d had a nice time. It felt tragic in a way, that such a crap picnic could have lifted his spirits so much, but it had.

How miserable had his life been before today? How miserable had his life been before Merlin blundered into it? Perhaps the sacrifices he had made for football were too much. His misadventures with Gwaine, Leon and Percy had told him it wasn’t the alcohol that was missing.

At the back of his mind, the monster he dared not speak the name of slowly opened its eyes.

~ ~ ~  
~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading; doubly for commenting.


	5. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is cake. Battenberg cake. You're not getting any more than that.

“Merlin, it’s for you!” Hunith yelled from the kitchen over the noise of the ‘phone.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know; I don’t recognise the number.”

“Then how do you know it’s for me?”

Merlin staggered into the kitchen draped in a duvet and picked up the ‘phone. It was for him.

“’Lo.”

“Merlin?”

“Arthur?”

“Yeah, hi. I’ve been dropped for the match this afternoon, and I heard you weren’t going into work either. Do you want to go out and watch the match?”

“Can’t. I have a vomiting bug. Where did you get my number?”

“Gaius. Vomiting bug? Great, I can come ‘round and catch it off you?”

“You must be joking. I’m dying.”

The _click_ of Arthur putting down his ‘phone suggested that he had not listened. The sound of Arthur pushing the buzzer ten minutes later confirmed it.

“You look a state,” remarked Arthur, once Hunith had let him in.

“Cheers,” Merlin replied dully from his bundle of quilt. Arthur let himself drop onto the sofa beside him.

“Is this…?” Hunith began cautiously. Merlin thought it wise to cut her off. Since the coming-out, she had tended to assume all male friends were boyfriends.

“This is Arthur, a friend of mine. He plays for Camelot.”

“Oh… why aren’t you playing today?” asked Hunith, a little starstruck.

“My father’s the manager. He dropped me. He says it’s not personal; he’s just trying out younger players in my position. He says it’s for the good of the team.”

“Oh.” She stared for a moment, before gathering her thoughts. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve made Battenberg as well.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m ignorant,” charmed Arthur. Merlin wondered why he had never seen this side of him. “What is Battenberg?”

“It’s a cake. The pink and yellow one. Only, I had no pink colouring, so it’s red and yellow, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Mrs. Emrys, don’t play yourself down. Sell it as red and gold: Camelot colours.”

Hunith giggled, having reverted to a child in Arthur’s presence.

“I’ll just go and get you a slice.”

As she left, Merlin looked at Arthur, surprised.

“What?” Arthur demanded.

“Nothing,” replied Merlin, turning back to the match.

Soon, Merlin’s mother returned with a mug of tea and a plate of cake for Arthur.

“So,” Arthur began, around a mouthful of cake, “this vomiting bug of yours? I gather that’s why you’re skiving off work?”

“I’m not skiving,” Merlin protested weakly. “I haven’t eaten anything solid in two days.”

“God, this cake is amazing. Is your mum always this brilliant?”

Merlin nodded, eyeing the rapidly diminishing cake with envy. Arthur took another bite of cake.

“What about your dad?”

“He died when I was eight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

Arthur thought for a second.

“I don’t want you to think we have a connection or anything, but my mum died.”

Merlin knew from reading Arthur’s Wikipedia entry, but he didn’t let on.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“What’s your dad like?”

“Difficult to impress.”

“I can imagine,” Merlin sympathised.

“Also, he can’t cook.” Arthur licked the last morsel of marzipan from his fingers.

When the final whistle blew, Merlin was faintly disappointed. Portsmouth, struggling, certain-to-be-relegated Portsmouth, had beaten them 1 – 0. It wasn’t even a lucky goal. Naturally, some journalist cornered Uther.

_“Uther, no luck today?”_

_“No. These are the matches that matter the most to us, and I can assure you that I will be going over the recordings with a fine-toothed comb.”_

_“Many fans will be questioning your decision to leave Arthur out of the side after he declared himself fit to play on Thursday. What do you say to them?”_

_“As I’m sure you will agree, there is a huge difference between physical fitness and psychological fitness. Recently, Arthur’s attitude to the game has been less than satisfactory. I’m not just saying that because he’s my son; if any of my players were struggling with emotional issues on or off the pitch, I wouldn’t let them play. For example, if I knew one of my players was going through a divorce, I wouldn’t let them play. I wouldn’t let anyone play if they told me they were gay either.”_

_“Easy, Uther; isn’t that homophobia?”_

_“Look, I’m sick and tired of things being labelled as homophobic just because people don’t like to hear them. Few could disagree that the emotional issues a gay man has to undergo are completely different to that of a straight man. That affects your ability to play- I mean, just look at what happened to Justin Fashanu. No, if I found out that one of my players was gay I would throw him off the team. Thankfully, Arthur’s issues are a little more temporary than that, and I hope to have him back with us soon.”_

_“Uther Pendragon, thank you.”_

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” muttered Merlin.

“Go on.”

“Your father’s a knob.”

Arthur nodded slowly.

~ ~ ~

Arthur fidgeted on the bench. They were 1 – 0 down.

“Dad, put me on.”

“Arthur, I have one substitute remaining. It’s up to me what I do with it,” Uther responded calmly, eyes on the pitch.

“What’s the fucking point in doing anything else?”

“Mind your fucking language, young man!”

“I’m telling you, put me on. If we can’t score, this isn’t going to get any better.”

“Who’s to say Geoff can’t score?”

“Oh, only every right-minded person on the planet.”

“I beg your pardon? He’s an old friend of mine.”

“Exactly. He’s _old._ Thirty-six would be pushing it for a goalkeeper, let alone a striker.”

“Oh, and you think you can do better?”

“I can. Put me on, and I’ll show you.”

After a moment’s violently calm tension, Uther gestured towards the touchline.

“Well? Warm up then.”

By the time Arthur got onto the pitch, there were three minutes of normal time remaining. He ran like fuck, because there was work to do.

Needless to say, Arthur saved the day, and salvaged a point for Camelot. 1 – 1.

~ ~ ~

“Merlin! The door!” Hunith shouted, wafting cool air at the temperamental fire alarm.

Merlin picked up the receiver.

“Who’s there?”

“Gwen.”

“Christ!”

Merlin pushed a button to open the door, and a minute later, he was handing Gwen a cup of tea.

“Explain,” he said simply.

“Well,” Gwen began. “Freshers’ week was amazing...”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“But then lectures started...”

“Ah.”

“And I realised: Theoretical Physics with Quantum Mechanics just isn’t for me.”

After a pause, they both burst out laughing.

“Of course it wasn’t! Why they let you in is beyond me!”

“Oi!” Gwen laughed, “But it’s true, I shouldn’t have been there. I was the only girl in the whole department!”

“I told you.”

“Yes, but I thought that would be a good thing!”

Merlin shook his head. The phone began to ring.

“Merlin!” Hunith handed him the ‘phone. “Arthur for you.”

Gwen’s eyes widened as Merlin accepted the call.

“Hey, Arthur.”

 _Arthur Pendragon?_ mouthed Gwen. Merlin ignored her.

“Yeah, well done on the 3-1, I was there. A drink?”

 _You’re going out for a drink with Arthur Pendragon?_ Gwen continued, desperately trying to get a response from Merlin.

“What time? Yeah? Three Ravens? Great.”

 _Me! What about me?_ Gwen waved in the direction of her face.

“Oh, can I bring a friend of mine? Oh, you are too? Great. Yeah. We’ll be there. See you, Arthur.”

He pushed the End Call button, and Gwen squealed.

“Do you mind not distracting me when I’m on the ‘phone?” He asked, deadpan.

“Sorry, Merlin,” Gwen beamed. Later, “So, how’s the love life?”

“There was someone; now there isn’t.”

“Shame.”

“Not really; he’s a good friend.”

“Ah.”

“How’s your love life?” he reciprocated.

“You know what?” asked Gwen.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you once I’ve met Arthur Pendragon.”

~ ~ ~

“What’ll everyone have?” asked Arthur, once Gwen and Merlin arrived.

“Red wine,” smiled Gwen.

“Half of Carling.”

“Mine’s a pint,” smirked Lance, but not unkindly.

“Merlin’s a lightweight,” Gwen explained as Arthur went to buy drinks.

“That’s nothing,” Lance smiled; he seemed genuine. “Arthur’s going to come back with a lemonade. Most people would think it’s a G and T, but it’s not.”

“So how do you know Arthur?” asked Merlin.

“I play for Derby County, where Arthur was on loan last season.”

“Oh? You’re a footballer?” Gwen asked, her voice lifting strangely.

Merlin allowed himself a small smile before going to help Arthur at the bar.

“I’ll get those.” He nodded at Arthur’s glass, “G and T, nice choice.”

Upon returning to the table, Arthur fixed Lance with something that, were it not for the crease at the corners of his eyes, could have been considered a death stare.

“What?” smiled Lance innocently.

“I don’t suppose you told him _why_ I don’t drink?”

“Oh, I thought you’d want to boast about it.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but then closed it again. For the first time since Merlin had met him, he seemed human, having faults and accepting them.

“I don’t drink because I want to look after my body. Playing football is the only thing that matters to me.”

Gwen cocked her head.

“There’s got to be something else. How do you unwind?”

“I kick a football. Sometimes, after training, I’m there for maybe two hours, just taking spot kicks, free kicks, whatever.”

“It’s true,” Lance nodded. “I’ve had to wait for him before.”

“What about you, Lance?”

Gwen seemed to have this conversation lark covered. Merlin took a gulp of his lager.

“Well,” Lance began. “I fence. It’s controlled, but more importantly it’s all about individual performance. If things don’t go my way on the pitch, I’ve always got fencing. With fencing, you can’t blame a bad result on anyone else.”

The conversation went quite well after that, though Gwen and Lance did most of the actual talking. Merlin and Arthur had half an eye each on the television; Chelsea were thrashing Blackburn 5-0, and it was actually quite a spectacle.

Merlin watched Didier Drogba take a throw-in. Gwen elbowed him in the ribs.

“I see you,” she gestured at the screen.

“What?”

Merlin knew, of course. He was feigning ignorance, and badly.

“You were staring at his arse.”

Merlin gaped for a second, before nodding and shrugging the allegation off with a smile.

“Well, what else am I supposed to look at? I’m hardly going to be looking at his throwing technique.”

Arthur sat back in his seat a little.

“You’re…?”

“Indecisive, yes he is,” nodded Gwen.

“Indecisive?” queried Lance.

“She means bisexual,” Merlin smiled coolly. “The way I see it, bisexuality is the way forward. It means not discriminating when it comes down to the most important thing in life- love.”

“Deep,” nodded Lance. “Do you really believe that?”

“No,” grinned Merlin. “It’d be great if I did, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think we can change our sexuality,” Lance pondered. “I tried kissing a bloke in a club back in Derby but it didn’t do it for me, I’m afraid.”

“What about you, Arthur? I bet you’re a real ladies’ man…” Gwen cooed. Merlin loved her for it, this seductress act.

“Oh, he’s told you before,” Lance cut in. “He plays football. Nothing else. He tried having girlfriends, but there’s only so many times you can explain the offside rule without strangling someone.”

“Good thing, I expect,” Merlin offered, “your not getting involved with anyone. Must improve your game no end. Less… emotional issues.”

Arthur knew this was a reference to his father’s speech. He said so.

“Haven’t you thought about it though, what would happen if you turn out to be gay?”

The lager had loosened Merlin’s tongue. Or perhaps his brain. Arthur was unruffled.

“I’m a Premiership footballer, Merlin. I haven’t thought about it, because these things don’t happen to Premiership footballers. These things happen to fashion designers, holiday reps, actors, hairdressers, airline stewards...”

“…Assistant groundsmen,” Merlin chipped in, taking the piss. “Do you ever think that you’re turning into your old man?”

“He wouldn’t care,” Lance contributed. “His old man was a very good footballer.”

The evening rolled on, the drinks became larger and thicker on the ground, and it became increasingly obvious that Gwen was going back to Lance’s hotel room.

“Night, Merlin,” Gwen smiled, securing Lance’s arm around her waist and letting him lead her out.

This left Arthur with a rather inebriated Merlin on his hands.

“We’d better get you home,” he surmised.

Merlin attempted to stand up. He got there, but leaning himself against the table had been a major part of his plan.

However, if Arthur had thought that getting Merlin to stand up was going to be difficult, he hadn’t counted on the stairs to the flat.

“Oh, Arthur,” Merlin sang, oblivious to both the time and the consternation he was causing. “Arthur, I’m so honest when I’m drunk.”

“Yes?” Arthur asked calmly.

“Yes! And you can lie and lie and lie to me, because you don’t drink.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

Merlin looked taken aback, and moved away from Arthur to lean on the handrail.

“I’m not asking for your justification, Arthur! I’m just saying, there’s you, lying, and there’s me, always telling the truth.”

“How am I lying?”

“I don’t know, Arthur. I wouldn’t know if you’d been lying, because then I wouldn’t know what the truth was!”

Arthur saw the logic, but he also knew that Merlin’s argument was fundamentally flawed.

“I wouldn’t lie to you when you’re drunk,” he explained. “I couldn’t ever lie to a man who had no choice but to be honest with me.”

“Wow,” said Merlin, and nearly fell backwards. Arthur’s arm caught him around the waist, and pulled him upright again. They were nearly at the top of the stairs now. 

“Ha! Look at you, Arthur. Wouldn’t daddy be angry?”

“Angry at what?”

Merlin made a surprisingly adequate attempt to seem sober.

“You have your arm around my waist. You look,” he looked Arthur in the eyes, a little unsteadily, “quite gay.”

“Yeah, well it’s a good thing I’m not actually gay, or else this would be called taking advantage of you.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not gay or else daddy wouldn’t let you play football,” Merlin squeaked in mock astonishment. What he was feigning being astonished about, Arthur couldn’t fathom.

“This is you,” Arthur said, pointing at the door. Merlin began to giggle. “What?” Merlin kept right on giggling. “Seriously, what?”

“What would you do?” asked Merlin. “What would you do if I _kissed_ you?”

Arthur sighed.

“I don’t know, Merlin, probably what I’m doing now, I’d just try to-”

Merlin cut him off by planting a kiss on his lips and collapsing against the doorframe in stifled laughter.

“Daddy will _kill_ you,” he whispered with drunken glee.

Arthur’s ears were ringing. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.

 _Just kiss him back_ , he thought. _He won’t remember. Just try it; nobody will ever know_.

Merlin stopped laughing, and looked at Arthur inquisitively.

_He won’t remember. Do it._

Arthur grabbed Merlin by the back of the neck and shut his eyes to the surprised look on the dark-haired man’s face. Then he kissed him. He half expected Merlin to pull out of the kiss, but he found that the other man was a more than willing participant.

Arthur enjoyed it. He enjoyed it, and that surprised him, because he was a Premiership footballer, and things like that didn’t happen to Premiership footballers. Most of all, they didn’t happen to Arthur Pendragon.

~ ~ ~

After the match at Stoke, Arthur found himself once again being ushered into an interview room.

“Clive Tyldesley, ITV,” someone, presumably Clive Tyldesley, said. “Another game, another Man of the Match award; how did you think you played?”

A microphone was thrust into his face.

“I think I did well, obviously I set up the goals, but all credit to Leon, those were two brilliant finishes.”

“You must realise though- you played out of your skin! Camelot were unlucky to come away with the draw. What’s your inspiration?”

“I think, as a player, you’re always looking to find yourself, because that’s where the form’s going to come from…” he was talking bollocks; what the hell was he doing? “…I don’t think I’ve found myself necessarily, but maybe I’ve taken a step closer.”

“Well, I expect Camelot fans will be hoping that you keep on with that journey of self-discovery. Arthur Pendragon: thank you.”

Arthur nodded, and wandered off to shower, thinking about what he might have meant.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~


	6. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A derby match, Draig-related confusion and a really quite hefty list of warnings. Past character death is explained, leading to some triggering stuff for anyone affected by stadium disasters. Spoiler warnings for Titanic and Fever Pitch, some German swearing which may or may not be right because I wrote it when I could still understand German, but which I wouldn't advise sticking through Translate because it's more rude than I'd be happy to use in English.

Lugging the piece of gardening equipment he didn’t even know the name of, Merlin trudged onto the pitch to make it playable. It was amazing how quickly twenty-odd footballers could ruin the pitch simply by warming up. He tried concentrating on his work, but it was difficult; the atmosphere was utterly electric.

This was the most important day of the season so far, the Camelot leg of the Black Country derby, and the powers that be had conspired to create an atmosphere worthy of any cup final. Though the match was due to kick off at seven thirty, already the sky was utterly black. The floodlights blazed down on the pitch, giving Merlin and his workmates x-shaped shadows. From the stands, opposite sides roared abusive songs at each other; Merlin caught the words of _‘Always shit on the Tesco carrier bag’_ \- a Monty Python-themed reference to the blue and white stripes of the West Bromwich Albion shirts.

Funny. Wolverhampton really wasn’t all that far from West Bromwich, but therein lied the problem. For two fixtures in the football calendar, West Brom and Camelot fans had to pretend they hated each other, that they weren’t related to each other, that they weren’t actually workmates, lovers, best friends. It was ridiculous, really, but sometimes football is like that. You can’t understand it, so you just embrace it.

Eventually, Merlin decided that he had turned about as many little pieces of turf as he could usefully turn, and went to return his nameless gardening equipment.

~ ~ ~

Back in the dressing rooms, Arthur was getting dressed after his pre-match shower, which he had decided was going to be his superstition for the time being.

“Hey Arthur,” Kai appeared out of nowhere, pulling his shirt over his head. “Nice penis.”

Arthur suddenly felt self-conscious, and Kai drifted off. Bedi waited for Arthur to pull on a pair of briefs before he apologised for his friend.

“You’d probably think that’s the warped German sense of humour. You’re wrong. That’s Kai’s warped sense of humour.”

Arthur nodded. He wondered why Bedi stuck with Kai. Probably because Bedi was so nice he felt he had to apologise every time Kai did something offensive, and wanted to be around every time that happened. Which was often.

“He’s not gay,” Bedi continued. “He’s married. And not married like Elton John was married. Married like say, Bill Clinton is married. Though, don’t tell his wife.”

Arthur smiled, “Why do you put up with him, Bedi?”

“As I told my mother when he turned up to my wedding drunk, he is a good man. Not only that, he is the best man when you are having a laugh. Perhaps he is not the best man when you are having a wedding, but he certainly livened up the service.”

“What did your mother say to that?”

“She didn’t talk to me for days. Nor did my wife, for that matter. You had better put a shirt on, or else Kai will come back and say you have delicious nipples.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s done it to Val, Percy and Gwaine already.”

Arthur thanked Bedi and pulled his shirt over his head. Bedi and Kai were best friends, had been ever since they met playing for Werder Bremen six years ago. They were so inseparable, such a brilliant partnership, that when Kai transferred to Camelot, Bedi followed shortly afterwards.

That’s all there was to it, though. Nothing unusual, nothing that didn’t fit with the typical lifestyle of a top-class footballer. Nothing like kissing a drunk friend because you knew he wouldn’t remember.

Oh God, he felt so young some days. He was eighteen; most people his age weren’t expected to know who they were, know their sexuality. They got a release, they could get this out of their system if they wanted. Arthur couldn’t. Ever since that day when his father had plucked him from the crowd at Wembley, everyone had cared about Arthur Pendragon. He was Uther’s son and heir, and he was going to be the best player Camelot would ever see. He certainly wouldn’t be gay.

With that thought, he focused on the most important game of his career so far. He felt that he ought to play a blinder, for Camelot.

~ ~ ~

If anyone was blind, it was the bloody referee. Arthur had known that the West Brom players these days played dirty, but he had never imagined it would be this bad.

When Alined King had taken over as manager, he had brought in some of the most disgusting scum ever to soil a football pitch. Now, said scum were running rings around Camelot.

Ten minutes in, wiry Portuguese midfielder Cedric had performed the most balletic dive Arthur had ever seen. Kai had snorted in disgust, laughing at the attempt, but to his, and pretty much everyone else’s astonishment, the referee came bearing down on him wielding a red card.

“Sir,” Kai began, “you are making a mistake.”

“The referee’s decision is final, Mr. Ordner, please leave the pitch.”

“The referee is an idiot! And why do you refer to yourself in the third person, eh? I am German, and yet I master your language far more competently than you, sir! Du bist ein Fotze! Mach es dir selber, sir! And you have no idea what I am saying, sir, because du bist unwissend!”

Bedi jogged over to stand between Kai and the referee.

“Kai, stop speaking,” he intoned, looking the disgruntled full-back in the eye.

“Warum? Er kann es nicht geben mir eine andere rote Karte!” he leaned around Bedi, “Hurensohn!”

“Kai, I know what you are saying. There are cameras. They will pick up unfair dismissal, and your suspension will be overruled. If you get off the pitch now.”

Kai tilted his head back and clenched his jaw before turning and walking off the pitch, defeated. He didn’t even pause to speak to anyone as he stormed up into the tunnel towards his early shower.

The misery for Camelot didn’t end there. The supposed offense had taken place just inside the penalty area, and after feigning taking the kick and watching second choice keeper Eric Troy dive to his left, Cedric blasted the ball straight down the middle to make it 1-0.

After the third goal, Arthur managed to claw one back, but barely after Uther had used his third substitute, West Brom forward and captain Tristan DeBois performed a crunching tackle on right back Owain Hughes. Crunching. Literally.

Though the referee waved play on, Percy Fisher ran to Hughes’ side, gesticulating that the ball needed to be put out of play. It was, as DeBois scored Albion’s fourth. In the celebrations, Hughesy was all but forgotten.

Gaius ran on, took one look and knew it was a break, and a bad break at that. Bugger.

~ ~ ~

‘Merlin.’

Merlin had been about to leave when a voice from the shadows stopped him. He looked into the dim corridor.

‘Mr Draig?’

‘Kilgarrah, I told you.’

The man stepped out of the shadows, and gestured for Merlin to follow him into the bowels of the stadium.

‘This,’ he announced finally, ‘is my lair.’

The office was tiny and windowless, lit by a single fluorescent strip. Not what Merlin would have imagined at all from a millionaire eccentric. There were trinkets scattered around, medallions, a large eggshell, and even, Merlin was alarmed to spot, an enormous sword.

‘Souvenirs,’ Draig explained, ‘of a past life.’

Merlin rocked awkwardly.

‘What was it you wanted to talk about?’

‘The young Pendragon. You see him sometimes?’

‘Yes, sometimes.’

‘And what do you think of him?’

Was Merlin being accused of something?

‘He’s… alright,’ Merlin frowned. ‘I can talk to him about football, so we get along. He’s a prat sometimes, but he makes up for it in other ways.’

‘Other ways?’ Draig cocked his head.

‘Oh God,’ Merlin choked, realising what he’d said. ‘Pissing hell, _no_. Not _those_ ways. God, no, not like that at all.’

The older man chuckled.

‘You cannot deny it Merlin, your futures lie together.’

‘Oh, I can deny it. Not happening, not him.’

‘Merlin, one day soon, Arthur will face a great challenge, and he will need you at his side if he is to accomplish his destiny.’

‘Destiny? What destiny?’

‘Albion.’

‘Albion?’ Merlin laughed. ‘West Brom? They gave us a lamping today, same as they have for ten years without fail.’

‘And yet it is Arthur, with you at his side, who will end that hoodoo, and bring peace to Albion.’

‘Peace? Destiny? Bollocks.’

‘Albion has always been Arthur’s destiny, Merlin. And so are you.’

‘Like I said,’ Merlin turned to go, ‘bollocks.’

Kilgarrah Draig made no attempt to stop him, merely returning to his desk with a flick of his tail.

Tail? Merlin needed to get some sleep.

~ ~ ~

_The Mail on Sunday, 21 st November, 1999_

_“It should have been their proudest day for seven years. Instead, Aldershot Town supporters who attended Saturday's FA Cup second round tie at Exeter were faced with a tragedy in which eleven people died and many more were injured. However, those who survived must be thankful that the quick thinking of some fans ensured that the disaster failed to reach the proportions of Hillsborough ten years ago._

_“As the exit gates on the away terrace bulged under the pressure of bodies and briefly gave way, men feared for their lives, while women and children were passed forward to avoid the crush. Some were not so fortunate. Four men and seven children lost their lives. Darren Thistle, Kieron Moss and Nigel Simm were all members of the Aldershot Supporters Club, while Balinor “Lee” Emrys was a fan of Camelot who had come up to watch the match with a friend. The seven child victims are yet to be named._

_“When the smoke from flares had dissipated into the Devon air and the match had been abandoned, the supporters of Aldershot Town found the finger of guilt pointing their way. 'The whole thing was an absolute disaster,' said Barry Underwood, president of the Aldershot Supporters Club, who took his 11-year-old son Matthew onto the terrace. He was the club's safety representative during their Football League days._

_“ 'I was on one of the supporters club coaches which arrived outside St James' Park at 2.15pm. We joined the queue which was already about 70 yards long and four deep. There were people 10 or 20 yards further in who were pointing to stewards and waving their arms to indicate the place was full up and they shouldn't let any more fans in. At about 10 to three, the stewards shut the turnstiles, but there was a lot of concern among the fans. When the teams ran out, people couldn't believe it because we assumed the kick-off would be delayed. Our worst fears were confirmed when the whistle went for the kick-off. That's when people outside panicked about having not gained entry. I could see from my position that the exit gate was being pushed from the outside and was buckling in. There was one person, maybe a steward, trying to hold them. The gates gave and people burst through them. I remember thinking that it was curtains. People kept coming in, though we were shouting at them to stop. Our reaction was to shout to the kids "Get on the pitch." I was concerned for my son and managed to get him onto the pitchside. Some people started passing the kids forward through the crowd, with little regard for their own safety. Then somebody released a flare. It was obviously a stupid thing to do. It landed in the face of someone standing next to me and fell to the floor. It caused a lot of smoke which caused a lot more panic and confusion. I guess that’s when people died._

_“ ‘Once my son was on the pitch, I quickly got out and went with him. The terrace was packed. Once we got onto the pitch perimeter, we walked to the terracing at the far end, but my son didn't want to go in there. He was in tears. He'd had enough and said: "I'm not going in there." So we stood next to the seats at the end. The referee had stopped the match by then. We wouldn’t have wanted to watch the football after that anyway. We could see the ambulance men trying to help those involved, and we knew that it could have been us.' The supporters who initially spilled onto the pitchside pleaded with referee Clive Wilkes and Aldershot players to halt the game. Wilkes eventually led the players off and suspended the game. Aldershot chairman Karl Prentice had been able to see the situation developing from his seat in the grandstand and alerted home directors._

_“Prentice said: 'The Exeter chairman said kick-off couldn't be delayed but agreed to take me down to the referee's room. The referee said he had received no report from the police or the safety officer, so he would start on time. We had told the Exeter people on several occasions that we would be bringing a minimum of 1,500, so why were our supporters, who had arrived early, still queuing at 3 o'clock?'_

_“The police reported no arrests in the ground and only three in Exeter city centre before the game._

_“The police say the queues outside the ground were behaved and arrived early - a different view from that of Exeter secretary Stuart Brailey, who blamed away fans for the chaos._

_“ 'A lot of Aldershot fans turned up in the last 15 minutes having been kicked out of pubs in the town. As soon as he blew the whistle, people outside decided they wanted to climb over the fences so they didn't miss anything. It was the influx of the last-minute fans that created a bottleneck behind the turnstiles and caused the problem. There was plenty of room for Aldershot supporters. The whole thing was blown out of proportion.'_

_“If Brailey's words cause anger in Aldershot, think about the anxiety of Everton supporters - the next visitors to Exeter in the FA Cup. The football fans of Merseyside know all about tragedy.”_

~ ~ ~

Balinor’s stone didn’t have much on it, certainly nothing to tie him to the stadium disaster at Exeter.

Merlin looked at it. What was he supposed to do but think about a man he barely remembered? There was nothing on the stone that gave any clue as to the man buried beneath it, or who he had been.

He hoped he was the man his father wanted. A good man, he liked to think, and a football fan. From what he discerned from his own patchy recollections and his mother’s rare storytelling, in Balinor’s mind, the two were equivalent.

Merlin, Hunith and Gaius walked out of the gates together in silence. This had been the tenth year they had said their prayers and belated goodbyes, and it still didn’t get any easier.

Eventually, Merlin decided to break the silence.

“So; any news on Owain?”

“Not expected to be back for six months at the earliest, I’m afraid,” Gaius said quietly. After a while, “In truth, he’s probably out for good. I can give you two a lift back, if you want.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Gaius, we’ll take the bus,” Hunith attempted to protest, but Gaius was already ushering her towards his car.

The soft blip of the doors unlocking awoke Arthur, who was sleeping in the passenger seat. He got out of the car.

“Mrs. Emrys, Merlin,” he nodded. “You coming with us?”

“I’m just giving them a lift home,” Gaius said solemnly.

“I’ll get into the back,” Arthur smiled. Hunith attempted to protest but he responded, “No, Mrs. Emrys, you sit in the front. Us kids will sit in the back.”

He smiled and Hunith giggled. Merlin scowled in astonishment. Arthur was frequently an utter prat to him; why was he so nice to everyone else?

The journey back was quiet. Arthur was looking at Merlin out of the corner of his eye as if he thought he might cry. He really wasn’t going to. It had been ten years. In fact… Merlin breathed in thoughtfully. Maybe he could do with some light relief.

“So… Gaius giving you a lift home as well?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

There was a risk of them lapsing into silence again.

“Whereabouts do you live then? I mean, you know where I live.”

Arthur studied Merlin briefly. Did he want an invite? Did Arthur want to invite him?

“Did you want to come over? I was just going to kick back and watch a DVD.”

Half an hour later, Arthur still couldn’t believe he’d said that. He wondered what he was playing at. He had left Merlin to sift through his DVDs as he made them both tea.

“You’ve got some crap here,” Merlin called.

“It’s not crap,” Arthur replied. “What exactly are you referring to anyway?”

“The 2007 League Cup Final?”

“It had entertainment value! The media called it the Snarling Cup Final-”

“Witty.”

“I know- because three players were sent off right at the end, and it was sponsored by Carling. Carling, snarling. It had the most minutes of normal time ever seen in a League Cup Final.”

“How do you know this crap? And is there anything here that isn’t just football?”

“There are some Disney-”

“You can fuck right off if you think I’m watching the Princess and the Frog,” Merlin chipped, holding the offending article aloft.

“That’s probably not mine?” Arthur suggested.

“We’re going to HMV.”

“Really, Merlin. Is your taste so superior to mine?”

“It would seem so.”

~ ~ ~

They had been browsing the bargain shelves of HMV for over an hour.

“Titanic?” Arthur offered.

“The beginning spoils the end. She survives, he dies. There’s no suspense.”

“Control?”

“Pissing tragic. I don’t expect you know anything about the music any road.”

“Sure I do.”

“Right, so who was Ian Curtis?”

“I’m tempted to make your point here and ask if he scored 185 goals for Arsenal, but I know full well that that was Ian Wright.”

A thought occurred to Merlin as he spotted one of the titles.

“Have you ever seen Fever Pitch?”

He held out the box. Arthur, faced with the unmistakeable green of turf and white of pitch markings, didn’t even ask what it was about. He could guess.

~ ~ ~

The film was alright, about a man who liked football, and Arthur could relate. However, when the images of the Hillsborough disaster floated onscreen, he began to feel quite uncomfortable.

“Have you watched this before?” he asked Merlin quietly.

“No.”

Merlin paused the disc, a second before Arthur would have. He had guessed that Gaius had explained why they were visiting the cemetery.

“I’m okay, Arthur. My dad died ten years ago.”

“Don’t you…”

“What?”

“Don’t you blame anyone?”

“You’re watching the film. Standing was part of the game back then. In some ways, making all-seater stadia must have changed football forever. It was a stupid accident, lots of little problems adding up to one big mistake.”

“People died though.”

“Yes. People die doing all sorts of things. My dad was unlucky.”

“You just keep going?” Arthur asked.

“What else is there? You can’t undo what happened at Hillsborough, or at Heysel, or at St James Park. You can’t stop people singing _at Hillsbrough you killed your own fans_ to Liverpool supporters either. I reckon anyone who thought about it wouldn’t try to make people.”

“It’s insensitive…”

“You give most football fans too much credit. If it wasn’t that they were chanting, it’d be something else- they don’t care and they don’t mean it. Just like nobody meant to kill anyone, but it just took a few idiots to rush the gates, and a few more idiots to tar all the fans with the same brush. Same happened at St James Park; a few drunk blokes broke through a gate, and the entirety of the Aldershot contingent was blamed. It doesn’t matter who you blame though, and it doesn’t change the outcome: _my dad died_. But football goes on, and the ridiculous petty insults go on. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Arthur resisted the urge to be sensitive.

“Stick the film back on, then.”

Merlin did as he was told. When the film was over, Arthur stretched.

“Well of course Arsenal won the league. It was 1989. Kind of spoilt the ending.”

“You do realise that wasn’t the ending that we’re supposed to be interested in?” Merlin asked.

“Of course I do,” Arthur snorted. “What’s the ending we’re supposed to be interested in?”

“That he manages to reconcile real life and football?”

“Football is real.”

“To you, maybe. The rest of us have to grow up.”

“Why?”

A little laugh escaped Merlin’s lips. He wasn’t sure why.

“Otherwise, we don’t get the girl. We end up with our football team at the centre of our lives, unable to talk about anything else. And we wear boxer shorts we bought in the merchandise shop. Were you not watching the film?”

“I was under the impression it was about football.”

“It is! It’s about how one day, if you’re not lucky enough to be Arthur Pendragon, football can’t be the centre of your universe any more. It has to be something more lasting.”

“What’s more lasting than football?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin sighed. “One day I’ll find it.”

“Shit,” Arthur swore, looking at his watch. “It’s half eleven. How did that happen?”

“Spending too long in HMV, dodging people in Camelot shirts, pizza, reconnecting SCART leads… piss, have you got the number for a taxi? And can I borrow a tenner?”

“You can stay the night, if you want, I have a spare room. Get a bus in the morning.”

“Cheers,” Merlin smiled.

Arthur was relieved. There was no way Merlin would have agreed to stay the night had he remembered that Arthur kissed him a month ago.

~ ~ ~

Merlin had, once again, tricked Gwen into accompanying him to the pub for a cup draw, this time, the F.A. Cup third round proper.

Gwen’s ‘phone buzzed. She failed to hide the expression of glee on her features as she flicked it open.

“O2?” Merlin asked.

“No, Lance.”

Gwen almost always missed sarcasm. As she punched the little buttons in reply, Merlin leant back to get a better view of the television.

“Did you want the volume up, Merlin?” Morgana asked, waggling the remote.

“If you would,” he smiled.

The first bar of _‘Scarlet and Gold_ ’, the Camelot anthem, rang out from his pocket.

“Hello? Hi. Yeah, in the Three Ravens. See you.”

“Who was that?” Gwen asked.

“Arthur.”

“Well, don’t look so glum about it. What’s up?”

“We lost 4-0 to Chelsea last week and 1-0 today to pissing Brummagem.”

“You’re not seriously expecting to beat Chelsea?”

“Yes, and Manchester United, and Liverpool and even bloody Albion. Well, it would be nice,” he shrugged.

“In any case, I thought you were friends with Arthur?”

“I am,” he agreed. “It’s just really quite difficult liking him when Camelot are still shit.”

“So, when I worked in Greggs, you would have been annoyed at me if your pasty was cold?”

“It’s not the same, Gwen. You weren’t pretty much solely responsible for the heating of each pasty.”

“Nor is Arthur.”

“This is getting weird; can we end this conversation here?”

“That would be my preferred course of action too.” She nodded to something over Merlin’s shoulder. “Look, Merlin; it’s the man who makes your pasty go cold.”

“What that euphemism is supposed to represent I have no idea,” Merlin grumbled, as he turned around to acknowledge Arthur.

“Hey,” the blond smiled, with such warmth that it threatened to lift Merlin’s stubbornly dire mood.

“You’re looking chipper for a man who just lost to Birmingham.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” groaned Arthur. “It’s really pissing difficult without Owain; dad’s having to play Hector Morris out of position.” He hoped that Merlin hadn’t noticed that he had picked up his quirk of using the word “pissing” where normal people just didn’t.

“Stop making excuses and let’s watch the draw.”

As Arthur sat down, he glanced curiously at Merlin, who was looking at an advert for shaving cream. He couldn’t think what relevance this might have to Merlin’s life; he imagined a lint roller over his top lip once a week would do it. Gwen, meanwhile, was really quite annoyed.

“The draw? You bought me a drink so you’d have someone to watch some football thing with? Again?!”

“Gwen, it’s a coincidence…”

“Merlin, it is not a coincidence.”

“Well, maybe not a coincidence. But if I coincide our trips to the pub with football things, my liver suffers less.”

“Merlin, your liver suffers not at all,” she mock-chided. “Any road, Arthur’s here now, you can watch the draw with him.”

“Ah,” Merlin glanced at Arthur dubiously. “You can stay, Gwen. Tell me about Lance.”

“I don’t think Arthur’s mithered.”

“I’m not,” he agreed, wondering just how much Merlin’s mood depended on the football result.

“There we go,” Gwen shrugged. “I best be off.”

“No, Gwen, please.”

There was just a tinge more desperation than there should have been in Merlin’s voice, and Gwen sat back down. She looked at Arthur just in time to see the last of a hurt look at the back of Merlin’s head. She breathed a sharp breath of recognition, and took a sip of her wine.

Camelot were drawn away to Tranmere.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In actuality, nobody died at the Exeter – Aldershot tie. Only 12 fans broke through the barrier; the others saw sense. Hillsborough and Heysel, however, were all too real, as were the Ibrox disasters and the Bradford City fire.
> 
> _Most of the time, I like to let my story speak for itself, but this chapter is special, and is dedicated to the innocent people who lost their lives at Hillsborough, Heysel, Ibrox and Bradford: 282 in all. It is also dedicated to the 2350+ people who were injured in those incidents, and who saw sights they never wanted to see, but can never forget._


	7. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas party, a pantomime villain and some more slash dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been a labour of love. I found myself watching the FA Cup 4th round draw for the first time in about three years today (Jan 6th). As ever, thanks for reading and extra thanks for those here and on LJ who comment. You've kept me going.

“So,” asked Will. “You found anyone to replace me yet?”

“Ah, who could replace you, Will?” Merlin asked with a smile.

Will looked pointedly out onto the pitch.

“Who could _realistically_ replace you, Will? You know that you have to be straight to play football? If you’ve ever so much as looked at a bloke’s arse you end up skying the ball from two centimetres out.”

“Ah, I knew there was a reason we’re on this side of the touchline.”

“There is more than one reason we’re on this side of the pissing touchline.”

As the players trailed off, Will and Merlin sprinted on with the others. Arthur looked slightly ill.

_Hey,_ Merlin mouthed consolingly, and winked.

Arthur’s brain, which had up until that moment been entirely occupied by the thought that he was shit, suddenly went into overdrive. What did that wink mean? And why did it bloody matter?

Fucking hell, Arthur needed to get a grip. He was having an appalling run of form of late, all because he couldn’t get something out of his head. He expected that something was Merlin, and that made things worse.

It wasn’t even because of what his father had said. What his father had said was… to be honest, expected. Homosexuality and football just didn’t go together, at least, not in the men’s game, and what the women’s game gained in tolerance, it lost miserably in popularity.

In the women’s game, nobody cared, and why should they? What difference would it make to what effort a person puts on once they get on to the pitch? Fuck all. Even if Arthur was gay, he wasn’t “playing for the other team”. He was playing for Camelot. Gay, straight, who honestly gives a fuck? And if anyone gives a fuck, who gives a fuck about them?

With this thought, Arthur stepped forward onto the pitch and decided that Bolton would lose that day. They did; 2-1.

~ ~ ~

“Score?” asked Lance, returning from the toilets.

“Still 1-1, you impatient bastard. I swear you’ve only been gone thirty seconds,” smirked Arthur as Lance sat down and pulled Gwen towards him. She was more than willing: watching Manchester United play some team called Wolfsburg from the comfort of the Three Ravens was not her ideal date.

Merlin was having a much better time. As everyone now knew to expect, Camelot’s victory at the weekend had put him in an excellent mood. As Arthur remarked, the tight bastard had even bought himself a full pint. It must be noted, however, that by the 70th minute of play, said pint was only half drunk. Arthur was quietly grateful; he wasn’t sure he wanted to have to escort a drunken Merlin home again.

With just under ten minutes left, Gwen was really getting bored. She appeared to be concentrating on something under the table. Meanwhile, Lance was watching the television with a somewhat glazed expression. Neither Merlin nor Arthur doubted that the couple would leave shortly after the final whistle.

By the time that whistle went, all four were a little thunderstruck. United had done what United do best, Michael Owen completing his hatrick in the dying minutes of the game, leaving Wolfsburg flailing.

“I knew there was a reason I liked the European matches,” Merlin nodded slowly.

“I liked them ‘cause I could watch them with my dad,” Arthur contributed. At the questioning looks he explained, “Well, when did Camelot last qualify for anything?”

Lance and Merlin exchanged the wry, pained expression that only long-suffering fans can wear.

“I was wondering,” Lance said in hushed tones, as Gwen fetched her coat from where she had left it behind the bar, “If your dad was looking to sign a right back?”

“To replace Owain?” Arthur replied.

“Well, yeah. My Derby contract runs out on January 1st and I’m putting off signing a new one. I’m not cup-tied either.”

“Risky. I’ll ask.”

“Cheers, mate.”

Shortly afterwards, Gwen and Lance had gone, giggling, into the night.

“Well,” sighed Arthur, stretching. “It’s just you and me again.”

“Yep,” Merlin nodded. “Are you going to try and kiss me again?”

Whatever nonchalant gesture Arthur was trying to make at that moment, he instantly forgot, leaving his facial features and left hand in positions he wasn’t quite sure how to recover from. Eventually, he managed it.

“Ah, you remember.”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, I understand.”

“What, that I didn’t think you’d remember and just wanted to try something new?”

“No,” grinned Merlin, “that you’re just a huge poof.”

If it had been Gwaine or Percy, Arthur could have punched him in the stomach, but this was Merlin, and a punch in the stomach would be less a friendly gesture and more the beginning of a long night in A & E.

“Get out of it,” he snarled, settling for ruffling Merlin’s hair.

“Just so you know,” Merlin said quietly, once they had stepped out into the biting December air, “I didn’t mind.”

“No,” said Arthur idly. “No, nor did I.”

After a pause, Merlin piped up once more, “Would you do it again?”

“Kiss some drunk guy again? I don’t know…”

“Not some drunk guy,” Merlin sighed, knowing full well he was stepping out onto a fairly fragile limb. “Me.”

“You’re not drunk,” Arthur babbled. “If you were drunk, maybe, I don’t know. Have I had a drink in this hypothetical situation because I do, like, on special occasions, at Christmas…”

Merlin pushed open the door to the block of flats, and dragged Arthur behind him, who was still rambling. Merlin was going to put a stop to that.

He kissed the blond firmly on the lips.

“Do you want to, maybe… stay over?” he whispered.

Arthur’s eyes widened, and he nodded in a way that he hoped conveyed _yes, I’d like that more than anything_.

Merlin took him by the hand, checking around corners that some little old lady, or worse, some pot-smoking teenager wasn’t lurking in wait. He wanted this, but not at the expense of Arthur’s career.

Arthur let himself be dragged up the stairs, wondering what daredevil part of his mind had put him up to this, but thanking every god imaginable that it had. His thoughts flashed like Christmas lights, each pondering a different treasure that lay behind the door to Merlin’s bedroom, twinkling out of existence as quickly as they had come.

Panic set in. He was a virgin. He’d never done anything remotely sex-related with anyone bar his own right hand. Unless he counted his left hand. Was he going to be any good? If he wasn’t, was Merlin going to mind?

The Yale lock clicked behind them as Merlin slammed Arthur into the door with a press of his mouth and hands that explored the definition in his shoulders. Arthur’s first-time nerves melted away as he realised he was in safe hands; Merlin knew what he was doing.

As he kissed Merlin, Arthur let his hands roam the other man’s body. It was everything he had imagined, lean yet muscular. He desperately wanted to investigate Merlin’s crotch, to find out if he was hard as Arthur was, but his cautious inexperience left him lingering on Merlin’s hip.

Both men snapped out of it at the sound of the television being turned off. They hadn’t noticed it was on in the first place.

‘I’ll put my earplugs in then, shall I?’ said Hunith, crossing the darkened hallway without a glance in their direction.

Arthur wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be scandalised or not, but then Merlin flashed him a grin that was all sex and mischief, and he let himself be dragged by the collar through a bedroom door.

~ ~ ~

Once all of the coaxing, and gripping, and nibbling, and eventual cleaning up with tissue was done with, there was nothing left to do but lie together.

‘Sorry the bed’s so small,’ Merlin murmured into Arthur’s chest.

‘S’ok. Means you can’t get away from me.’

Merlin smiled.

‘Why would I want to do that? You’re more likely to leave me in the night.’

‘Never,’ Arthur growled, tipping Merlin’s head to face his. ‘Never.’

~ ~ ~

Merlin pulled Gwen’s ‘phone out of his pocket, and handed it over the bar. Gwen was half-way through her shift, and typically disorganised.

“Don’t forget it again. You do know Lance is playing a match at the mo anyway?”

“I do use my mobile for other things, Merlin,” Gwen retorted.

“Won’t you stay for a drink?” Morgana asked Merlin smoothly. “Your man’s just scored against Spurs.”

“My man?” Merlin acted bemused. Quite well, actually; he’d had practise.

“The great Pendragon Junior. Don’t pretend like you don’t watch him like some lovesick puppy when he’s looking at something else, and ignore him completely when he’s looking at you.”

“I won’t pretend, Morgana, because it’s not true.”

“It’s so true. Trademark pathetic,” she goaded. “Don’t you agree, Gwen?”

“Well…”

“Oh, don’t say you haven’t noticed.”

“Well I have. But what about the way Arthur looks at him?”

“His lawyers will have you for that,” Merlin cautioned in a low voice, but Morgana and Gwen were already speaking in those voices that women use for gossiping for the simple reason that they are several octaves above the male range of hearing.

~ ~ ~

As he stepped out into the roaring, inimitable atmosphere of Old Trafford, Arthur began to feel a little sorry for Manchester United fans. The real fans, of course, the ones who loved their team, knew all the players, had a favourite goal. The ones who supported United because their heart would give them no other choice, and would continue to devote their weekends to following them even if they played in Conference North.

See, the thing was, Manchester United fans are unlikely ever to get that testing ground. As the most successful club in the recent history of English football, they have accumulated the baggage that 58 major honours can bring: glory hunters. Manchester United has over 300 million supporters worldwide. How must it feel to know you’re one of the only honest people in that 300 million?

It’s not like you can get a ticket to the ground anymore for any less than the price of a kidney, either. Once upon a time, going to the football was something people did. Now, it’s some kind of event. You go for a meal before, get the kids all dressed up in the colours of the team you happen to be supporting this week and you’re off. You don’t know the songs, but luckily most of them have only one lyric, or are being sung by large, imposing men who have foregone their chance at life that they might sing proudly from the stands.

Being a Camelot fan, Arthur felt, you got a more fulfilling experience. The tickets still sometimes went for less than the price of a holiday, and even though you did get to hear the chorus of _you’re shit and you know you are_ sung by the visiting fans… it was okay. You did know you were shit, but you let it wash over you, because next week you might not be.

The thing was, some clubs had been amazing and had fallen. Leeds, Champions League semi-finalists in 2001, were hoping for promotion from League One. Ipswich Town had followed a season of European football with a seemingly unending plummet through the tables. Nottingham Forest, one of the greatest clubs in history, had only just saved themselves from relegation from the Championship in the previous season.

The leagues are littered with the fallen. And then there’s Camelot, the little light that never goes out, no matter what. For ten seasons now, they’ve dallied with relegation and yet, somehow, managed to keep their heads above the water. No, they’ve never been brilliant, in fact, they’ve largely been awful. They’re always there though.

The sole purpose of Manchester United, to many of their alleged fans, is to win. Arthur decided he was going to have something to say about that.

Twenty minutes in, it became apparent that the beleaguered defence did not. Without Owain, they stood little chance against an in-form Wayne Rooney, and were already 2-0 down.

United won a corner.

“Everyone back,” barked Leon; there was little else they could all do. When the ball came in, the captain angrily booted the ball away and ran after it. This was going to be a challenge.

United were back in possession, O’Shea making a run down Camelot’s weakened right flank. He attempted to play the ball in to Rooney, but Percy Fisher was there with the interception, chesting the ball down and making a little run before sending the ball, inch-perfect, to Kai.

The speedy full-back took off at terrifying pace down the left, leaving any player who tried to stop him dizzy and confused. However, before long, he found himself nearing the corner flag, and somewhat out of options. Carefully, he picked out a pass to Arthur, who had run into the penalty area a moment earlier.

Arthur tried to confuse Rio Ferdinand with a couple of step-overs, but fancy footwork was not really his style. Added to that, he could see Vidić closing in. However, somehow, Kai had got himself back into a decent position, and rather than question it, he simply sidefooted the ball to the German, who dutifully put it in the back of the net.

Early on in the second half, Camelot scented blood once more. Valiant forced a save from Van Der Sar, who put it past the post for a corner. Gwaine played the ball short to Arthur, who sent the ball flying across the face of goal. Leon slid in to send the ball tumbling past the ‘keeper.

The sliver of visiting fans reacted as if they had won some sort of cup, whereas in actuality they had just scored an equaliser. An equaliser that was quickly cancelled out when United made it 3-2. All that time though, even after the final whistle, they never stopped singing.

_I fell in love wearing scarlet and gold,_

_And I’ll keep singing on to the words I was told,_

_Clinging so tight to the dreams that I hold,_

_Wearing scarlet, scarlet and gold._

~ ~ ~

Wandering through the empty stadium after the Burnley match, Merlin was startled to hear a voice in the darkness.

“Merlin.”

It sounded expectant, like Merlin ought to know what was needed.

“Mr Draig?” asked Merlin, for it was he.

“I see you found a way of influencing the match,” he smiled, all teeth, and too many of them. “2-0… not bad.”

“Sir?”

“Time goes on and your power wanes. Love, it appears, is constant.”

Merlin figured that feigning innocence was a good plan when faced with the man who held his gay lover’s career in his hands.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“You never did, Merlin, you never did.”

Then he was gone again, sweeping up a flight of stairs so fast that Merlin could almost question if he had ever been there at all. He shrugged it off and continued towards the dressing rooms.

“Hey, Dumbo,” someone shouted once he got in. “What are you doing down here?”

Merlin recognised him as Stephen Valiant.

“Easy,” came Arthur’s voice. “This is my friend, Merlin. We’re going out for drinks tonight with some of the lads. Did you want to come with?”

Valiant looked at him suspiciously, “Yeah, alright. Christmas treat. Where we going?”

“Three Ravens,” Merlin chirped.

“And then? Can’t do a crawl in just the one pub.”

“Well, there’s The Lake,” offered Merlin, “and then we could always check out Mercia.”

“Mercia?” laughed Valiant. “Have you got a death wish? That place is lairy at the best of times, let alone on a Saturday night.”

“All I got,” Merlin shrugged.

“Alright then,” Valiant agreed, sizing Merlin up and offering a hand for him to shake. “Stephen Valiant. Call me Stevie.”

“Merlin Emrys.”

“And what do I call you?”

“Merlin?”

Valiant laughed as if it were ridiculous, and wandered back over to his locker. Merlin leant back against a wall to wait for Arthur and stared into space. He suddenly realised he was actually staring at Kai Ordner, who was looking at him pointedly.

“Did you want an autograph or something?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Just in a world of my own.”

“Maybe you should stay there.”

Bedi was quick to smooth things over.

“Bedóier Maréchal. People call me Bedi,” he said, shaking his hand. “Arthur says you’re coming with us for drinks.”

“Well, yeah. I work here too. It’s like a football equivalent of the office Christmas party, I guess.”

“Nobody in here needs to photocopy their arse,” Leon said as he wandered past, towel around his waist. “Everything is pretty much on display 24/7.” He dropped the towel in the middle of the room, and continued walking as if nothing had happened. Some of the guys shouted half-hearted abuse; Gwaine kicked him in the shin.

“What do you think?” asked Arthur above the noise, buttoning up a black shirt.

“It’s like the bloody circus down here. I don’t know if I should try and watch or tear my eyes out in terror.”

“Ah, this is a quiet day,” Arthur sighed. “You wait until they start drinking.”

~ ~ ~

They hadn’t even got to Mercia yet, and already Merlin was a little blathered. He listened to the conversation around him.

“You should get yourself a multigym,” Percy Fisher suggested to Leon Bors.

“The wife would kill me. She wants the spare room for a fifth.”

“Kid?!” Fisher exclaimed, as if it were outlandish. “Fucking hell.”

“I mean, I love them. All of them. But surely it’s going to get to the point where I can’t even remember which is which.”

Elsewhere, Gwaine was being obnoxious.

“Why don’t you come on over, Valerie?” he sang, appallingly.

“Why don’t you piss off, Knighty?” retorted Valiant.

“It’s Christmas, Valerie. Lighten up.”

Valiant was obviously not that good at insults, because he failed to come up with any.

Leon dropped down beside Merlin, having given up on explaining to Percy that he couldn’t get a vasectomy just because he wanted to.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah,” Merlin nodded. “You’re all mad, though.”

“We have to be,” the captain sighed, finishing off his whisky and coke. “Can I get you another drink?”

“I don’t need another one.”

“You’ve had two halves and a shandy, Merlin. Come on.”

Leon was evidently a very experienced captain. From nowhere, Merlin suddenly felt himself become inspired to get another drink.

“Yeah, alright.”

“Sambuca shots, yeah?”

Before Merlin could respond, Leon had gone to get the shots, dragging people along with him.

“Does this count as a special occasion?” Merlin asked Arthur, who had just beaten Kai in an arm wrestle.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to get a drink? Only, Leon’s gone to get Sambuca shots.”

“Ah. I’m going to have to, aren’t I?”

Most of the Camelot players were married, but that didn’t stop some of the local girls from making eyes at them. Kai winked at one of them, who giggled.

“You interested in her? I can cover for you with your wife?” Bedi offered.

“No fear, Bedi; I wouldn’t touch her with yours. Maybe one for Gwaine?”

He turned to the midfielder, who scowled, before picking up a shot from Leon, who was distributing them with someone Merlin had never seen before, one of the guys who wrote the matchday programmes.

“What do we toast to?” he asked when everyone had their shot in hand.

“Tits!” shouted someone else.

The sentiment was echoed before they all downed their shots. A second round followed swiftly. Merlin expected there had been a third, but the memories were a little fuzzy.

By the time they left for Mercia, Merlin was in a state of docile amusement, happy to listen to the conversations around him rather than join in. Arthur seemed to fit right in, despite being three shots of Sambuca away from stone cold sober.

Merlin had never really been “one of the boys”, but he saw the attraction. Their behaviour was mostly completely out of order- they were taking the piss out of drunk girls, swearing at passers-by, beating each other up a little… no wonder public perception of footballers was so low. And yet there was a little buzz, a little feeling that sizzled in your stomach, that made the bright lights of the night stand out like neon stars and made the damp December air refreshing rather than cold.

Merlin understood fully why Arthur had to hide who he really was. If he even admitted to thinking he might be gay, let alone regularly engaging in night-time escapades with one of the groundsmen, the whole scenario would change. The nakedness in the changing rooms, the goal celebration hugging… it was easy to see sometimes why outsiders often thought that football was homoerotic.

Really, they had it on its head. There was never any suspicion that a footballer, of all people, might be gay. Football was the ultimate boys’ club. Their nakedness, their attitude about the whole thing, that was just part of it. How better to show one’s masculinity than, well, literally?

Really, every single one of them had been dying to go to Mercia since it opened. This was half way between a pub, a club and medieval England. A fine selection of ales adorned the bar, but the real attraction lurked in a back room.

Sponge matting covered the floor and various weights of boxing gloves adorned the walls, along with a fairly lenient list of rules. In a corner, a vicious-looking bouncer made sure that nobody broke any of them.

The footballers locked horns at the slightest provocation. Though they were friends, they had no qualms about bloodying each other up a bit- that was plain to see.

First up, and somewhat predictably, were Bedi and Kai. To begin with, the German had the upper hand, getting ever cockier with his remarks. Suddenly, Bedi hit him with an uppercut which lifted him off his feet, and he toppled to the floor. The Frenchman put a foot on his friend’s chest.

“Yield!” he cried, triumphantly.

“You…” Kai spluttered, dumbfounded and amused. Bedi pressed down harder with his foot. “Ok, ok, you win!”

Percy crumpled to the ground after Leon kicked him in the nuts, which he groaned was, “bang out of order.” The bouncer had nothing to say about it, bar an almost imperceptible wince.

Valiant threw a pair of ten ounce gloves at Merlin.

“You’re up. You alright with these?”

“You must be joking,” Merlin slurred. He had sobered up, but only just enough to stand, let alone fight… and fight Valiant. He wasn’t sure he could even get the gloves on.

“Lay off him, Val,” Arthur interjected. “Fight me instead.”

“No, Penny. Rules is rules,’ he gestured at the wall. ‘Whoever gets challenged has to fight.”

“You’re being stupid, Val…”

Valiant jabbed Merlin in the shoulder, sending him backwards into Gwaine, who looked as unamused as everyone else at Valiant’s behaviour.

“Come on, Merlin.”

There was a hush. Valiant was a big bloke; anyone would think twice before getting on the wrong side of him. Yet, here he was, picking on easily the smallest guy in the place.

“Oi, Valerie!”

As Valiant turned around to see who had called him, there was a tremendous smack of fist on skull. As the well built midfielder crumbled, Arthur rubbed his knuckles.

“Pissing hell,” breathed Merlin.

They must have done a runner after that, because before they knew it, Arthur and Merlin were out of breath in a bus shelter, waiting for a bus that wasn’t going to come.

“Oh my God,” said Arthur, once he realised what he had done.

“It stuns me that you never thought to do that before,” Merlin uttered slowly, still drunk as hell.

“Must be the Dutch courage.”

“I thought you were Welsh?”

Arthur ignored Merlin’s alcohol-induced stupidity.

“I meant to ask earlier… what did you want for Christmas?”

Merlin thought a moment, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No. Well, just do your best at Anfield on Boxing Day.”

“I always do my best, Merlin.”

“I know. But this time… do it for me.”

For a moment, they looked each other in the eyes. For a moment, it was quite tender. Then Merlin ruined it.

“I suppose you want a sports car or something?” he sighed loudly.

“No, that’s not what I want at all,” laughed Arthur. “But you’ll need Gaius’ help to sort out what I do want.”

“Oh? What do you want? Bandages, he has lots of those…”

“No. Could you get him to prescribe laxatives the next time Valerie comes in for treatment?”

Merlin smiled. That seemed fair.

‘Is he on the team sheet for Boxing Day?’

‘Much to his distaste, yes. He hates playing Liverpool.’

‘Because it’s his old team?’

‘Yes and no. The fans never really took a shine to him, being a Manc, so he tends to get booed a lot, but mostly he hates it because he had only been there two months before his place in the squad was usurped by someone younger, better and also with the same name.’

‘Steven Gerrard?’

‘Yep. He has to pretend to be all chummy about it, when really he’s massively bitter.’

‘My heart bleeds.’

For a moment they just stood there, leaning against the shelter, Arthur clearly fighting with himself about something.

“Did…” Arthur spoke quietly and hesitantly. But he’d started now. “Did you hear the news yesterday?”

“No… what news?”

“There was a rugby player. Gareth Thomas. He’s gay, came out yesterday.”

“Ah.”

“He was captain of the Wales team, capped a hundred times. Do you think… do you really think he could have done that if everyone had known?”

Merlin was a little too drunk for this kind of conversation, but he did his best.

“We’ll never know, because everyone didn’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the way I see it, Arthur… the way things turned out, with him not telling everyone, that was one thing that could have happened. They way things didn’t happen, with him telling everyone, that didn’t happen. So we’ll never know how that one would have turned out. Do you see?”

“Yeah, I see,” Arthur stared into the distance. “It doesn’t make it easier.”

“I wish I could hold you, now,” Merlin sighed. “But I can’t, can I?”

Arthur shook his head sadly.

~ ~ ~

Christmas Day was an unusual day in the Pendragon calendar, because it involved Uther hosting a turkey dinner for people he hadn’t seen since the last one. Perhaps that’s how Christmas was for everybody, but he didn’t think it was a very good idea.

‘Get up to much on your night out?’ he asked his son.

‘Not really,’ Arthur sighed. There was no reason to believe Uther knew what had happened. ‘I didn’t drink that much, left early.’

‘Probably for the best. The less rubbish you put into your body, the more you can get out of it tomorrow.’

‘I know.’

Arthur knew alright. His turkey dinner had been strictly vetted by a nutritionist, and didn’t have half as much gravy as he would have ideally wanted it to. Meanwhile, Uther had built a small tower of Yorkshire puddings, with a cascade of gravy running down it.

After dinner, the assembled remnants of the Pendragon family, including the De Bois lot from his mother’s side, scrabbled for presents underneath the tree. Uther invariably got something hideously tacky, which he smiled graciously upon receiving, before disposing of it in the evening.

Arthur received a pair of smart, and doubtless expensive, leather shoes from his father and a fancy but utterly useless corkscrew from his uncle. One parcel caught his eye, though, and he wondered who it was from.

‘Kilgarrah Draig?’ he asked, reading the tiny label.

Uther was stunned but not pleased. Kilgarrah was eccentric and reclusive, barely giving the time of day to anyone he didn’t think worthy of his attention. Uther had been one of those, and rather wondered why his son had been given a Christmas present, of all things.

Arthur carefully peeled back the paper to reveal a large leather case. He undid the clasps, and nearly couldn’t believe what he found inside.

‘It’s a sword. Kilgarrah Draig has given me a sword.’

‘He’s nothing if not… inventive,’ Uther curled his mouth around the word.

Arthur spotted something tucked inside the case, a tiny present, appallingly wrapped. He wasn’t stupid, and pocketed it before anyone saw. He would open it that night.

~ ~ ~

Merlin checked his ‘phone. Arthur had to have seen his present by now, unless he was even more of a clot than previously reckoned.

‘Phones away!’ Hunith chastised. ‘It’s Christmas.’

‘Mum, everyone’s gone home, we’ve had too much Baileys and we’re knee-deep in wrapping paper. The Christmassy bit of Christmas is over.’

‘There’s still another present,’ Hunith smiled, taking something from behind her. ‘It’s for the both of us. Gaius gave it to me, but it’s not from him either. It’s from a Mr Draig.’

‘The owner of Camelot?’

‘If you say so. I thought we should open it together, once everyone left. It’s not often you get presents from people you don’t know.’

Merlin shook his head, and took a corner of the small package, and tore the paper open. It was a tiny wooden dragon, signed B.E. There was a note.

_“As if you can’t guess, Balinor made this. And Merlin, don’t think for a second that Arthur didn’t get you a present- it was just too big to hide behind a tiny wooden dragon. It’s in your room.’_

Hunith smirked. She must have known.

‘Mum! Why didn’t you say?’

‘Say what, ticker?’

‘You know what!’ Merlin said, practically running to his room. On his bed sat a small package, wrapped a little lopsidedly, but certainly nothing in comparison with the mess he’d made of Arthur’s.

His phone began to buzz. The devil himself.

‘Arthur?’ he answered, barely containing his excitement.

‘Merry Christmas. I’m about to open my last present.’

‘The one from me?’ Merlin asked.

‘Yes, you idiot, but try not to squeal too loudly, my entire family are in the next room.’

‘Sorry,’ Merlin grinned. ‘I’ve found yours too.’

‘Together then?’

Merlin nodded, before realising he was on the phone and saying, ‘Yes.’

Merlin unwrapped his gift- a DVD of Camelot’s 1997-98 season, signed by Uther Pendragon.

‘Yours was surprisingly difficult to get,’ Arthur admitted. ‘Look on the back.’

Merlin did so. On the top right was a picture of a father and son in the crowd, and they looked strangely familiar.

‘My God, Arthur. It’s me and my dad. How did you know?’

‘Picture of your dad in the hallway,’ Arthur admitted. ‘I’ve seen enough of the DVDs to recognise who it was. By the way, this is amazing.’

‘Thought you might like it,’ Merlin smiled, and wished he could have seen Arthur unwrapping a tiny figurine in his own likeness, with an oversized head, and with the word ‘Prat’ carved into the plinth. ‘They do customisable figures in the Castle Megastore. You won’t believe the looks I got from the people at the counter.’

‘No, not considering how well I’ve been playing recently.’

‘I’m glad I got you a doll with a big head. It suits you.’

‘Merry Christmas, Merlin,’ Arthur sighed.

‘Merry Christmas, Arthur.’

~ ~ ~

The Liverpool-Camelot tie was the evening match on Boxing Day, so Gwen had grudgingly agreed to watch it with Merlin in the pub. She had spent all Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Lance’s parents in Derby, and so was in high spirits.

Merlin was also in high spirits. This was largely because, despite an early goal from Fernando Torres, Camelot were 2-1 up at half time. Valiant had been booed by the home side from the off. Also, he could have sworn that when Arthur scored his goal, he had traced a little ‘M’ in the air the second before Leon jumped on him and knocked him to the ground.

“Presents time!” beamed Gwen, lifting a squashy package from under the table. Merlin handed her a small leather-bound book in exchange.

Merlin was careful not to tear the wrapping paper as he peeled open his parcel.

“It’s a… uh…” he guessed.

“It’s a scarf,” Gwen explained. Merlin looked astonished for a moment, before picking up the garment.

“I shall wear it always,” he declared. “Aren’t you going to look at yours?”

Gwen did so.

“Oh my God! Look at these! Morgana, look at these!”

Merlin had done her a photo album of all the years they had been best friends. She and Morgana seemed most interested in the most embarrassing pictures of him as a child, however.

Not yet ten minutes after the match restarted, Merlin was heard by all in the pub to shout the following: “What a pissing idiot. What’s going on? What the fuck? Fucking hell, Jesus!”

That could probably do with some explaining.

~ ~ ~

The grass inside the penalty area was damp, and Arthur slipped. The referee was quick with a yellow card for diving.

“Sorry, mate,” consoled Liverpool’s Carragher, offering Arthur a hand up. “I saw you slipped, but trust me, this ref won’t listen to anyone.”

Arthur tried to sit up, but he had quite badly winded himself.

“What are you doing down there, Penny?” came Valiant’s irritating Northern whine.

“Give me a second, alright?”

“The ref’s not having any of it; get up you fucking poof.”

Arthur was on his feet; damn the pain.

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

“Touched a nerve, have I, Penny? You going to hit me again? What would you rather I called you? Arse bandit? Bum boy?”

Arthur had his back to the referee, and did not see him marching towards them. He tried to punch Valiant repeatedly in the face and chest, but none of the punches landed successfully. Valiant, however, went down like the sack of shit he was.

Arthur was about to kick him when he heard the referee’s whistle and the reality of what he was doing dawned on him. Violent conduct was violent conduct, whoever it was directed towards.

Second yellow. Red. Tunnel. Shower.

~ ~ ~

Merlin let himself in to the flat.

“How’d it go, m’lover?” his mother asked.

“Terrible. Arthur got sent off and we lost 3-2.”

“Arthur? That nice boy Arthur?”

_“The one you’re sleeping with?_ ” she thankfully omitted.

“Yeah, he hit someone,” Merlin groaned. Any other time, he’d have been pleased with that.

At about a quarter to ten, the door buzzer sounded. Merlin heard his mother answer it.

“Ar? Oh, really? Well, you’d best get up here, you saft thing.”

A couple of minutes later, a sheepish Arthur wandered into the flat, where he was instantly accosted by Hunith.

“What did you think you were playing at?”

Arthur was speechless. There was a redness in the skin around his eyes that suggested he had been asking himself the same question. Hunith pulled him into a deep hug. Merlin hung back, unsure what to do.

Hunith turned to him, “Get the man a dishle, Merlin.”

As Merlin scurried away, Arthur asked, “What?”

“Cup o’ tea, Arthur kid,” she replied. “Come and sit yourself down.”

Barely two minutes later, Arthur and Merlin were sat together on the sofa, each awkwardly looking at the other over the rims of their mugs.

“What happened?” Merlin asked.

“I punched Valiant.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“I’m not going to say.”

Merlin put his mug down. The flat felt very quiet now that his mum had gone to bed.

“Why not?” he asked finally.

“Because it doesn’t matter! The man’s a dick, you know that. You know why I hit him the other night…”

“Yeah, because he was intent on beating the crap out of me.”

“…yeah, but you understand that it’s not the only reason why I did it? If it had been Leon or Percy or Gwaine, I wouldn’t have hit them…”

“Oh? There I was thinking you were being chivalrous or something, trying to save me from a six-footer with biceps bigger than my head, when actually it was just because you didn’t like the bastard!”

“What I mean is, it wouldn’t have been Leon or Percy or Gwaine, he’s the only dickhead who’d do that…”

“Nice backtracking, Arthur, really.”

Merlin looked at Arthur with an expression of utter disgust. Arthur shook his head.

“I’m going.”

“Good.”

“I’d say goodbye, but you’d twist my words.”

“Oh, so I’m twisting your words when you say that if Leon, Percy or Gwaine decided they wanted a piece of me, you’d tell them to help themselves?”

“Yes, Merlin, that is twisting my words! Maybe I should have let you get what was coming to you.”

“Fuck off and get out.”

Arthur didn’t look back.

~ ~ ~

Merlin, Gwen and Lance warmed their hands on polystyrene cups filled with hot chocolate as they waited for the New Year.

“Time?” Gwen asked.

“Two minutes to,” Lance replied.

“Thank you.”

They kissed, in that sickly-sweet but adorable way a new couple will.

“How you holding up, Merlin?” Lance asked, linking Gwen’s arm with his.

Merlin scowled, “I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

Gwen tilted her head to one side pityingly, “Well, things aren’t exactly going swimmingly, are they?”

“Camelot lost 3-0 the other day to City, which was fucking dismal,” Lance suggested.

“Agreed,” nodded Merlin.

Lance continued, “And Arthur’s got a 3-match suspension, which means we have two more dismal matches ahead of us.”

Another miserable nod from Merlin.

“And something seems to have happened between you two, ‘cause I thought…”

Gwen shook her head frantically, her eyes wide. Merlin didn’t need this.

“I’m off to get more hot chocolate.”

As Merlin trudged towards the stand for hot drinks, he was dimly aware of a countdown being started on the PA system. After it got to one, everyone cheered and held up their drinks, but what for?

Here’s to a year just like the last, with just as many disappointments as you got last time around. Here’s to all the mistakes you never learnt from last year that you’re bound to repeat in this one. Here’s to the drama, the confusion, the stupidity of life, the ongoing optimism in the mind of every idiotic fool that this year will be the year.

The year for what? Heartache, despair, illness and mourning, and the worst, worst feeling of all, that sickening safety in the knowledge that despite all the years you’ve been through so far, despite all the warnings you’ve received, you’ve gone and done it. You’ve gone and fallen in love with the only person who could ever really hurt you.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~


	8. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance has his first brush with a deadly enemy, but Gwen is on hand to pick up the pieces. Frustrated, Arthur needs to find the right way to make an apology, but can he do it?

Lance held up his new shirt and grinned while flashbulbs blinded him. It was soon time for questions from the floor.

‘Are you looking forward to playing at Camelot, Mr. Du Lac?’

‘Oh, absolutely. My dad supported Wolves and then Camelot, so I grew up with that. Uther here was my childhood hero.’

‘What do you say to that, Mr. Pendragon?’

‘Well, obviously I’m very flattered.’

‘Mr. Du Lac, I believe you played at Derby with Arthur Pendragon?’

‘I did.’

‘Are you going to enjoy playing alongside him at Camelot?’

‘Well, of course. He’s my best mate, really, when he left Derby we stayed in touch… I even gave him a birthday card yesterday.’

He smiled; a couple of journos thought this was interesting, and took notes. A brusque male on the front row was indifferent.

‘Do you know the reasons behind his outburst at Anfield a week ago?’

‘I don’t, and I don’t think Arthur would want me to say even if I did. It’s obviously something between him and Mr. Valiant.’

‘Valiant says that he doesn’t understand why Arthur attacked him.’

‘Nor do I, but I understand why Mr. Valiant would say that.’

‘What are you saying, Mr. Du Lac?’

‘If there had been any wrongdoing on Mr. Valiant’s part, I doubt he would have stepped forward and admitted such. Arthur’s being punished for what he did; Camelot could do without losing another of their star players right now.’

‘One last question, Mr. Du Lac- will you be playing tomorrow?’

‘That’s up to the manager to decide,’ Lance smiled.

The press officer ushered them away.

~ ~ ~

Gwen flung a newspaper at Lance as he was unveiled on her doorstep.

‘Read,’ she snapped, a little out of sorts, Lance thought.

He walked through to the living room, nodding in acknowledgement of Merlin, who was playing solitaire on the coffee table.

‘What did you want me to read?’

‘Back pages. It’s not like you read anything else anyway.’

‘Fuck,’ Lance breathed as he saw the headline, and a huge picture of his own face.

‘Yep,’ Merlin replied, not looking up.

Lance began to read aloud, ‘Trouble In Paradise: Camelot’s new signing Lance Du Lac reveals that all is not well at The Castle. Speaking at a press conference last night, Du Lac suggested that the side was being torn apart by bitter rivalries. What’s more, he also alleged that Stephen Valiant, star midfielder, was being forced to keep his mouth shut regarding the evident cracks. Du Lac said, “Camelot could do without losing one of their star players right now.” Struggling in the league, and with a big cup match against Tranmere this afternoon, were Valiant to reveal what actually happened at Anfield last Saturday, Camelot could risk being penalised further by the F.A. Du Lac also revealed that best friend and teammate Arthur Pendragon had reason to hide the motives behind the attack on Valiant. Asked why Arthur had hit his teammate, the right back replied, “I don’t think Arthur would want me to say.”’

‘We, by the way, don’t believe that’s what you said at all,’ Merlin consoled.

‘Well, it is… but they took it completely out of context!’

‘Welcome to the Premier League, Lance.’

Gwen gave him a hug.

‘So, what happened at the match? We didn’t catch it because of the paper, and Merlin wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’

‘1-0,’ Lance said, leaning back into the chair. ‘Arthur scored.’

‘I thought Arthur was banned?’ asked Gwen.

‘Cup match,’ Merlin explained. ‘Different rules.’

‘Also, we’ve been drawn against Crystal Palace in the next round.’

‘Easy,’ grinned Merlin.

‘You’d hope so, yeah. But the papers really aren’t that far off. Arthur and Valiant won’t work together at all any more. Arthur’s really quiet, but Valiant’s behaving like the cat that got the cream.’

‘I wish I knew what had happened.’

‘Me too, Merlin. I asked him, but he doesn’t say anything. If anyone else asks Valiant, he just laughs knowingly. I know he’s got something evil planned, but he seems like just the sort of bastard that you can never pin anything on.’

‘Pissing hell. So, Camelot are back to playing like crap.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Lance smiled. ‘Anyway, we’re not the only ones struggling.’

‘No?’

‘Liverpool drew at Reading.’

‘Christ,’ Merlin breathed, while Gwen sank her head into her hands. ‘They have to get rid of Benitez.’

‘He’s just signed a new contract; they’d look like idiots, what’s more, they’d have to pay through the nose.’

‘Jesus.’

‘There’s more. Manchester United lost.’

‘Fuck me,’ Merlin breathed. The gravity of what Lance had just said was lost on Gwen.

‘Sorry?’ she asked.

‘Manchester United,’ croaked Merlin, still in shock. ‘They lost to Leeds. Manchester United, defending champions, Leeds, shite League One team.’

‘Never came close to getting a hold of the match, apparently.’

‘Well. At least the Sundays will have summat else to write about.’

~ ~ ~

Merlin was not pleased to be keeping an eye on the away stand, face to face with jubilant Wigan supporters. The joyous news three days ago that Liverpool had lost their replay at Reading, reducing the number of worthy opponents in the F.A. Cup, had turned to misery on Camelot’s own turf.

Without any feasible attacking option, Camelot were two goals down with the clock ticking away.

Merlin felt, now more than ever, completely helpless. Of course, he was still angry at Arthur. The two hadn’t spoken since Boxing Day, which the dark-haired boy thought was a little unfair. Arthur was keeping something from him.

In all honesty, Merlin wished he could have been given some space to figure out his feelings for Arthur earlier. But he hadn’t been able to talk to anyone, because Arthur, rather than being just some bloke, was actually a Premiership footballer. If anyone overheard Merlin talking about him, or, though he couldn’t believe it would happen, Gwen went to the papers with something he’d told her… it could be the end of Arthur’s career. Maybe even his life.

Before knowing Arthur, Merlin had been dimly aware that there was no such thing as a gay footballer. Nobody said anything though. It never struck Merlin as being odd. He guessed that was the point of sweeping things under the carpet.

Since Arthur… well, he’d done a little research. There really was nobody. There was this one guy, once, called Justin Fashanu. Some managers refused to play him if they knew he was frequenting gay clubs, or leading the mythological “gay lifestyle” in any way. His own brother John publicly disowned him. In the end, he killed himself.

As precedents went, that wasn’t a good one.

All Arthur cared about was playing football. He was the son of a football player, and it was all he had ever known. He might be gay, but he was also a footballer. He couldn’t risk revealing that side of himself in case he lost the other side of himself, the side he truly cared about.

The thing was, Merlin truly cared about Arthur, and that made it so, so difficult. He was the one that had put Arthur in this predicament, if he hadn’t kissed Arthur that night… no, no, he mustn’t think like that. If it hadn’t been Merlin, it would have been someone else. In fact, Merlin suspected that Arthur probably already knew, and that he was just looking for confirmation.

Still, he knew that Arthur could have done without this confirmation so early in his career. It would be over before it had even begun, especially if incidents like the one at Anfield were to occur again. Oh, Merlin wasn’t stupid. He knew that the only reason Arthur would refuse to tell him was if it was something to do with him, and that just made it worse. He wanted to help Arthur, but Arthur was shutting out the only person who could help.

Now, they were completely isolated, not only from the rest of the world, but more significantly, from each other.

Behind Merlin, the whistle blew for full time. In front of him, Wigan’s away contingent erupted into cheers. He scowled.

~ ~ ~

At Crystal Palace’s home of Selhurst Park, it looked like a giant-killing was on the cards.

‘Remind me,’ Arthur said slowly, ‘why I’m not on that pitch right now.’

‘It’s a cup match. I’m resting you,’ Uther replied calmly.

‘I’m serving a three-match ban for violent conduct; how much more rest do I need?’

Uther ignored this. He barked out some instructions to Leon, who hardly looked as if he was having the best of afternoons.

‘Seriously, dad,’ Arthur went on. ‘We’re 2-1 down. This isn’t working.’

‘I don’t like the way, that, because you’re my son, you think you can influence my decision.’

‘I really don’t think I can,’ Arthur sighed, leaning back in his plastic seat.

Uther looked at his son.

‘You know, we may not look alike at all, but sometimes we’re so similar it’s startling.’

‘I doubt that,’ Arthur snorted.

‘There you go again; you’re refusing to believe anything anyone tells you. Go on, get warmed up.’

By the time the fourth official held up his little board, Crystal Palace were 2-1 up, with less than twenty minutes to go. It took until the third substitution had been made, putting Gwaine on for young Claudin Prince, to make the difference however.

Arthur scored twice in the last five minutes, and a little suburb of Wolverhampton breathed a sigh of relief.

~ ~ ~

'Afternoon,’ Hunith greeted Merlin sarcastically as he wandered groggily into the kitchen in search of toast. ‘I picked up a letter for you and I also think you have a text, because your ‘phone won’t quit bleeping at me.’

Merlin slumped into a chair and picked up his mobile.

 _Monmouth is fat twat_ it read.

‘It’s from Will,’ Merlin grunted. ‘He’s still annoyed at the result yesterday.’

‘Which was?’

‘0-0, against Liverpool. Liverpool are having a torrid time though, he thought we could beat them. He forgets we’re also having a torrid time.’

Merlin’s eyes fell on the letter his mother had set in front of him. Handwritten: how interesting. He peeled open the envelope to find a note and a couple of tickets.

_I hope you’re not doing anything Saturday. Here’s a train ticket up to Hull, as well as a match ticket for the KC. Have also booked hotel room at The Townhouse (twin). It’s in the name of Pendragon. I’ll meet you in the bar around five thirty._

~ ~ ~

Merlin fidgeted with his straw, still buzzing from his time with the Camelot away contingent. They were always more rowdy than a home crowd.

‘What did you think?’ asked Arthur, casually sitting opposite Merlin.

‘A hatrick. Very impressive comeback. Though you were bound to score a few- it was a bit of a goalfest.’

‘I wouldn’t call 4-2 a goalfest.’

‘Six goals is a goalfest.’

‘Have you seen Chelsea play this season? They beat Sunderland 7-2 a fortnight ago!’

‘I missed it. Unlike some, I was working.’

They laughed at that. It was the first time either of them had seen joy on the other’s face in weeks.

‘Go on, then. Tell me about it,’ Merlin smiled.

‘It was brilliant. I had tickets in Matthew Harding Upper.’

‘Don’t you need to be a member to get those?’

Arthur coughed.

‘You’re a member of Chelsea? Your dad was the best player Camelot have ever seen and you’re a member of Chelsea?’

‘And Manchester United and Liverpool. I can afford it.’

‘You have absolutely no pride.’

‘I do. I’m not a member of West Brom. Anyway, who needs pride when you’re watching a 7-2 Premiership match? You just revel in it.’

‘Okay then, tell me about the revelling.’

Arthur recounted the excitement of that afternoon. Watching the childlike joy in Arthur’s blue eyes, Merlin could only imagine the atmosphere, and wished that he could have been there.

‘It was 4-0 at half time!’ Arthur enthused. ‘Ancelotti subbed two defenders, for fuck’s sake. Everyone was singing; it’s the best atmosphere I’ve ever experienced at Stamford Bridge for sure. Not as good as other venues, mind.’

‘Wait; how often exactly do you go?’

‘A few times a season. Depends where and when I’m playing.’

‘You don’t know anything about loyalty, do you?’

Arthur waited until he caught Merlin’s eye before he replied.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I think I do. Can I show you?’

The intensity of the gaze struck Merlin. It occurred to him that something important was about to be conveyed. He nodded, his mouth dry.

‘Upstairs, then. Come on.’

Arthur led the way; they didn’t say a word. Once they got up to the room, Merlin picked the bed nearest the window, and Arthur lay on the other.

‘I’m sorry,’ Arthur said finally.

‘I forget why I was angry at you,’ Merlin responded.

‘Me too. It was stupid. I only didn’t tell you what happened because I didn’t want you to think it was your fault. All I did was make it worse, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. ‘Cause you actually mean a lot to me. I’m sorry I can’t show it.’

‘I’m sorry you can’t show it too,’ Merlin smiled resignedly. ‘I understand though. These things can’t happen.’

‘No. No, they can’t. Not in public. Not where anyone can see.’

‘And in private?’

Arthur could see the raw hope in Merlin’s eyes.

‘In private… we’ll let things happen. When they need to.’

Merlin beamed.

‘I’m happy with that.’

‘Good,’ Arthur smiled. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to watch Doctor Who.’

The blond snatched up the remote and Merlin lay back on his bed. Everything, he decided, was going to be okay.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	9. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the characters wheel inorexably towards the climax, dark forces look ready to take down our heroes. With the stage set, all that's left to do is play it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all, and I'm sorry about the angst.

Leon clapped Arthur on the back as he made his way down the tunnel back to the dressing rooms.

‘Nice one there, A.P. You too, Lance. A goal each,’ he raised his voice. ‘That’s what we want to see, lads!’

There were a few assenting noises; enough for Leon to be satisfied, anyway.

‘V… Stevie,’ Leon corrected, coming across Valiant pulling off his boots. ‘Nice work last week with the header.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Valiant, looking straight at Arthur, ‘It’s hardly the magic touch of twinkletoes Pendragon, but it did the trick just the same.’

It still made Arthur shiver when Valiant looked at him, as if he was just waiting for a moment of weakness to strike. He shrugged it off, clapping various people on the back as he went over to his locker.

Lance, however, was bothered by Valiant’s behaviour.

‘Stevie,’ he called jovially from the other side of the dressing room.

‘Oh, you’re not wanting me to congratulate you as well?’

‘Au contraire, my Stockport-born associate,’ Lance avoided saying “friend”. ‘I wanted to congratulate you on that through ball to Gwaine. Maybe Arthur was better placed, though?’

‘Get to the point.’

‘I have; why don’t you like Arthur?’ Lance dropped his voice, sitting beside Valiant.

‘Bloke hit me. Twice. There we go: two reasons. Bugger off now, please.’

‘No, ‘cause you never liked him, not even before. Why is that?’

‘Don’t pretend you’ve never noticed, Du Lac. You’ve known him longer than I have.’

‘Noticed what?’

‘The lad’s suspect. You know, likes his toast done on three sides.’

Lance had no clue what Valiant was on about, but decided to keep digging.

‘How’d you figure that?’

‘Well, he hardly ever comes out for a drink with the lads.’

‘He doesn’t drink.’

‘Well then. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.’

‘I don’t think he has the time.’

‘Whatever. He sulks like a bastard if things don’t go his way.’

‘I think he’s just a sulky bastard, to be honest, Stevie.’

‘Right, so up until then, you can explain everything away. But how about this? Those two times, when he hit me, what was I doing?’

‘Well, the first time, you were threatening a guy half your size.’

‘I was trying to spar with Arthur’s “friend”. He’s pretty protective of that kid, don’t you think?’

‘Merlin’s a good guy, Stevie, you had no business trying to rough him up.’

‘Whatever. I wouldn’t have hurt him too bad; I’m not a complete wanker.’

Lance, ever the diplomat, kept his thoughts to himself on this point.

‘Anyway,’ Valiant continued in increasingly hushed tones, ‘That second time he hit me, at Anfield. He did it ‘cause I called him a poof.’

‘No way,’ Lance breathed, realisation dawning as his eyes glazed over.

‘Yeah way. That explains everything, right? The emotional sensitivity, the pretty boy hair-’

‘Val, that’s not fair.’

This knocked Valiant out of his stride.

‘What?’

‘Leave the bloke alone. Whatever he wants to do when he’s off the pitch, what does it matter to you?’

‘Well, I don’t want to have to change in front of the bugger to be honest.’

‘You’re pathetic, Val. No man, no matter his sexuality, could ever be interested in you.’

Lance stalked off.

When Arthur drove home that night, he did so not knowing that he had dodged a bullet.

When Lance drove home, he did so not knowing that he had stepped into the path of one.

~ ~ ~

Merlin stepped out into the street; he had been sent out for milk.

‘Morning,’ came Arthur’s voice. The blond had been leaning on someone’s car, but then he got up to walk with Merlin. ‘Where are we going?’

‘I’m going up the shops to fetch milk. I don’t know about you.’

‘I’m coming with you. D’you know why?’

‘No, I don’t. Why?’

‘Because you haven’t thanked me for your present.’

‘What present?’ Merlin asked, curious.

Arthur sighed theatrically, ‘Yesterday. Valentine’s Day. I scored two goals for you. Because of me, you are safe in the knowledge that not only are Camelot progressing to the next round of the F.A. Cup, but they get to play Reading once they get there.’

‘Oh! And because it was yesterday that you did it, it makes doing your job a present?’ Merlin enquired, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

‘Yes, actually.’

‘Ok,’ Merlin smiled. ‘Does that mean Lance got me a Valentine’s Day present too?’

Arthur frowned, ‘No, that was for Gwen. It was just a rubbish present, because she hates football. Only, Lance is a sports-mad lunatic, so he doesn’t understand it when she uses the word “hate” and the word “football” in the same sentence.’

‘So why is you scoring two goals the perfect present for me?’

‘You like football.’

Merlin seemed unconvinced, or at least, he was trying to seem unconvinced.

‘Merlin, actually, you don’t even like football. You love it. When Camelot win, you smile for days afterwards. Your eyes sparkle, your hair shines and tiny angels come out to dance on your skin. And though I may have made up that last bit, you know the rest of it is true.’

‘Yeah,’ Merlin grinned. ‘Yeah, I do.’

They walked up to the newsagent’s stall.

‘Fuck,’ said Arthur. Merlin echoed his sentiments.

~ ~ ~

_The Sun, 15 th February, 2010_

_CAMELOT’S LANCE IN GAY EMBRACE SCANDAL_

_Words by Nimueh Jackson, pictures provided by Afanc Images_

_TO LOOK at him, very few people would suggest Camelot’s Lance of being anything other than your average footballer. Not always clean shaven, he embodies that rugged charm that plenty of gals love to go for. Only, as it turns out, it isn’t the gals he’s after._

**_ Kissing _ **

_Today, exclusively in the Sun, pictures show very clearly Lance kissing another bloke. Well, I never! The lucky lad in question is none other than Herbert Swamp, 22, of Derby. Swamp said, ‘Lance was really into it, which I thought was strange, ‘cause he’s a footballer and all that. You never think that they might be gay, but I reckon there are loads of them out there.’ Herbert’s words should rattle a few closets._

**_ Gaffer _ **

_Someone else who will be rattled after these revelations is none other than Camelot gaffer Uther Pendragon. Pendragon famously angered anti-homophobia groups by stating that he was unwilling to play an openly gay footballer. Now, will he go back on his word, or will he drop Mr. Du Lac, who has been playing excellently since his transfer from Derby County last month?_

**_ Girlfriend _ **

_Another person who really has to look at their options is Lance’s girlfriend Gwen Smith. Some will say that her existence quashes any gay rumours circulating about the star, but let’s not jump to conclusions too quickly, eh, readers? After all, Elton John was married._

_Read more, pages 9, 10, 50, 51 and 52._

~ ~ ~

Gwen had been stirring her tea for about fifteen minutes now, and it had long gone cold.

‘Naturally, I’m not letting it affect me. There’s just one photo. The rest is bollocks,’ she snapped, on the verge of tears.

‘I know. Did you want me to get you anything? I know you can’t go out…’ Merlin sighed, looking at the paparazzi outside the window. Arthur was probably in the same situation at Lance’s place.

‘I just want to see Lance.’

‘I’d imagine he’s got the same problem.’

‘Why hasn’t he called?’

‘Why haven’t you?’

Merlin was getting a little short with her, but he felt that he had to. Otherwise, how would they ever move on from this?

After a little more persuasion, Gwen picked up the handset and dialled.

‘Lance!’ she exclaimed when he picked up.

Merlin could hear Lance’s voice, but couldn’t pick out any words. It wasn’t his place anyway. He walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle, drawing the blinds as the attention of the paparazzi was drawn by his movement.

All this, and it wasn’t even true. It was that one kiss, Merlin was sure of it. Lance had just been unlucky enough that somebody had taken a photo.

That day, Merlin hated himself, because he couldn’t think about Lance at all, no matter how hard he tried. _How was Lance?_ he tried to think. _Why should he care?_ he actually thought. He just didn’t care, because there were endless loops of _what if_ s running around in his head. _What if it had been Arthur_ , for one?

That was the main thing really. Merlin, discreet as he may have been, was still a temptation for Arthur. The second Arthur faltered, vultures like Nimueh Jackson would be upon him. How would he forgive himself on that day?

First he had to deal with the day that was upon him. The day that saw Gwen imprisoned in her own house by hacks and him with no clue what to say to make it better.

Merlin spooned the teabags into the sink and carried the steaming mugs to the living room.

‘…yeah, love you too. Yeah, hope so too. You know, I really love you. Bye… bye.’

Gwen put the ‘phone down, in tears. Merlin handed her a mug. When there were no words, there was always tea.

~ ~ ~

The match was over, Bolton were defeated, but the obligatory post-match celebrations were just beginning. Arthur shook hands with Valiant.

‘Limp handshake, Penny,’ the Northerner mocked.

‘Trying not to shake your hand, Valerie,’ Arthur muttered.

Valiant heard.

‘Be a good sport, Penny. I scored a goal, you scored a goal, Bolton lost out.’

‘I’m not really feeling that at the moment. If we didn’t keep having to run back and defend all the time, we could have done a bit more.’

‘We got the three points; cheer up for fuck’s sake,’ Valiant turned to him. ‘This isn’t about gayboy Du Lac.’

‘He’s not gay and we all know it. That photo was taken three years ago at least.’

‘Don’t know why you’re defending him. If I were you, I’d be glad someone else was getting in to trouble around here, and I’d concentrate on keeping my head down. Only I’m not like you; I like to put my sausage in a fish roll.’

Whilst trying to block out the imagery, Arthur almost forgot to ask a question.

‘Sorry; what?’

‘Right, Penny. Are you gay?’

Arthur paused just too long.

‘No.’

Valiant smiled and walked away, as the chorus of voices in Arthur’s head screamed _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…_

They were right to. That night, Valiant typed a number into his mobile.

‘Hello?’ came the voice of a woman.

‘Nimueh; it’s Stevie.’

‘Alright. What you got?’

‘Pendragon. Definitely a bum boy, no question. You’ve just got to catch him out.’

‘You best not be leading me the wrong way, Stevie.’

‘Promise you I’m not. I mean, I know that stuff with Lance was pure bollocks, but it turned out good for you in the end, right?’

‘Oh, absolutely. So, what makes you so damn sure about Pendragon?’

‘Obviously there’s the pretty boy perfectionist thing.’

‘He’d be a prime target for the tabloids were it not for the fact even the blokes playing Sunday League wax their pubes these days.’

‘Yeah, then there’s the drama queen thing.’

‘The sulking back in September; a good basis, but I need something I can get solid proof from.’

‘Alright. How’s this? The sending off at Anfield: he hit me ‘cause I called him a poof. Major overreaction for a straight bloke, am I right? Week before that, he hit me ‘cause I tried to rough up some effeminate friend of his.’

‘I see where this is going. What’s the friend’s name?’

‘Merlin Emrys. Dark haired, skinny, tall, dumbo ears.’

‘Any clue where they might go out together?’

‘First place the Merlin kid suggested when we all went out for a drink: The Three Ravens, it’s on…’

‘I know where it is,’ Nimueh interrupted. ‘Now that is interesting.’

The line went dead before Valiant could put his finger on the curious note in the hack’s voice. It didn’t matter. He supposed he’d find out what it meant soon enough.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~


	10. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story climaxes amid some good fortune for Camelot. Friends are hard to come by, but invaluable when they do arrive.

The day at the Madjeski in Reading had begun with so much promise for Camelot. Local rivals West Bromwich Albion had drawn dismally in their cup tie the day before, and though Reading had knocked out two Premier League teams already in the F.A. Cup, there was a general feeling that they couldn’t do it again.

They were doing it again. Camelot were 2-0 down at half time in the sixth round proper of the F.A. Cup, meaning that the team had to endure an Uther Pendragon team talk.

‘You are probably all labouring under the misguided opinion that cup matches don’t matter any more. You have all been misinformed, and that I will forgive you for. What I will not forgive you for is for insulting Camelot’s name.’

Uther’s tone was perfectly measured. In the gaps between his words, the silence was leaden.

‘Camelot was born out of hope, and right now, it looks as if you might have abandoned it already. But I will tell you something, and you’d do well never to forget it: while you play for me, you will never give up hope. You will never disgrace yourself by giving up the fight. You will never, absolutely never, let the world think that you are weak.’

One of Gwaine’s boots squeaked on the lino; Uther shot him a look that could melt uranium.

‘Gwaine Knight: eleven caps for Ireland. Are there only ten other men in your country, Mr. Knight? Did everyone else call in sick those eleven days?’

Gwaine opened his mouth.

‘I do not want a reply, Mr. Knight; my point is this. Playing as you are, you wouldn’t make the first team for Andorra, and I’m hard pressed to give a reason why you should be in mine. And frankly, that goes for every single one of you. In my day, to wear a red shirt with gold trim was an honour. Half the squad were ex-Wolves boys, and my God they could play. They never stopped, never gave up, because they knew what it meant. Most of you had never even been to Wolverhampton before you got here and it shows. You don’t care! When you fumble a pass or let a defender slip by, it’s because you don’t fucking care. I’m going to tell you something. The people back in Wolverhampton care, because they love this team far more than you will ever know. Life there revolved around manufacturing, but cheap Chinese imitations are gradually taking their jobs away, taking their lives away. They sign on and do all they can to make all that melt into the background. That is, until the weekend. At the weekend, everything changes. At the weekend, they can gather around the television and watch the sports news, because Camelot are playing. Some lucky bastards will even get tickets.’

Arthur couldn’t help but think that his father would have been a formidable sight on some ancient battlefield.

‘So you go out there again, and when that whistle blows, give the forgotten people of Britain’s old manufacturing towns a reason to live. _Out of darkness cometh light_ ; get out there and win, or God help you, you will regret it.’

He turned and walked out, his long coat billowing behind him.

The game finished 4-2 to Camelot; they would play Chelsea in the semi-final.

~ ~ ~

_May 16 th, 1999, The Hawthorns, West Bromwich_

Finished with his goal celebration, Uther Pendragon jogged back to the Camelot half, joyfully noting the looks on the faces of the home fans. They were devastated; 3-1 down on the last day of the season, normal time all but done with… the title had slipped from their grasp.

Albion’s misery was Camelot’s salvation- even if Southampton won, Camelot would be one point above the drop zone. It would also be good news for Manchester United, who would be looking at a historic treble win. Uther ignored the sea of dejected faces as West Brom restarted the game.

It didn’t take long before Uther was on the ball again. The seconds were ticking away and he had a single defender, centre back Adam Saxon, between him and the goal.

The defender came out to meet him. Uther never thought it strange until afterwards that Saxon failed to look at the ball even once. He just looked Uther dead in the eye and smirked.

The next thing Uther knew, everything was painful. The noise of the crowd, which he usually managed to ignore, bored deep into his consciousness. His vision blurred, and he saw boots walking away and heard a sarcastic voice say _I’m sorry_. Shortly afterwards, he was bundled off on a stretcher and sank into unconsciousness, his pain willing him to never return.

Video replays proved that Saxon had broken Uther’s knee deliberately. He received a full year’s suspension by the F.A., the Football League and UEFA.

Adam Saxon got off lightly.

That was the last game of football Uther Pendragon ever played.

~ ~ ~

Merlin had never felt such energy from the home crowd at Camelot. Before him, thousands of Camelot faces were almost glowing with excitement, and it was as if the spirit of the very ground itself was flowing into his hands as he rested them on the sacred turf.

What a scalp this would be. After finding out they would play Chelsea in the F.A. Cup semi-final, Camelot had been near unstoppable, but there was a vast difference between clinically disposing of Burnley and destroying Manchester United 3-1.

That was what Camelot were doing, and Merlin tingled to think of it. Of course, every fan knew that, no matter if United were title holders, or runners-up in the Champions’ League, Camelot were still more than a match for them. There was a massive chasm of difference, however, between holding that semi-delusional dream in their heads and seeing it played out before them.

The familiar roar of the announcer burst into life.

‘The referee’s assistant has signalled that there will be a minimum of four added minutes.’

Distantly, the United fans cheered, and Merlin cursed. Fergie time, the inexplicable extra time Manchester United get when they’re losing. Previously put down to disgruntled football fans’ paranoia and tendency to think the world conspires against them when their team loses, statisticians had grudgingly confirmed it.

However, when the inevitable goal was scored, it was not Camelot’s Von Blumenthal who tossed the ball away angrily, but Edwin Van Der Sar.

Barely audible over the raucous home crowd, the gleeful announcer, also a Camelot fan, started up again.

‘Confirmation of a second goal for number fifteen, Arthur Pendragon!’

Merlin smiled in a way he would have been ashamed of if he could see himself. This was mad. He was going out with a blond, muscular, nineteen-year-old Premiership footballer. The best part was, nobody else knew.

~ ~ ~

‘It’s all pulled this and twisted that- really, they’re supposed to be adults. They should know better than to run themselves ragged like that,’ Gaius moaned over his cup of strong coffee. In the aftermath of the United game, he had experienced something of a rough day.

‘It was bostin,’ Merlin grinned.

‘That’s not the point! If every game was won one-nil and played cleanly, my job would be so much easier.’

‘Gaius, you wouldn’t have a job if football was that dull,’ Merlin sighed.

‘How would you know if it was, Merlin? You haven’t seen a match all season.’

‘I went to the away match at Hull,’ Merlin retorted, before he could stop himself.

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

‘And how, exactly, did you come by that? If I recall, Camelot haven’t put an away ticket on general sale since October.’

‘Ah,’ Merlin started. It was impossible lying to Gaius.

‘I know you’re not a member, because you still don’t have a real job.’

‘But-’

‘Merlin, love it as you do, wearing a fluorescent jacket and sitting on some turf is not a real job. Where did you get the ticket, Merlin?’

‘Someone had a spare.’

‘Who?’

Gaius’ tone was somewhat investigatory, in the same way that the Spanish Inquisition was somewhat investigatory.

‘A friend.’

‘Merlin, who?’

Merlin snapped, and blurted a sentence that he couldn’t believe he’d blurted.

‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.’

Gaius was unmoved.

‘Merlin, you’re terrible at keeping secrets. I just hope, when everyone inevitably finds out, it was actually worth hiding.’

Merlin nodded thoughtfully.

~ ~ ~

The longer he and Arthur pretended just to be friends, the harder it became for Merlin. At first, they pretended to be just as they were before, friends who occasionally took the piss out of each other. Soon, however, they noticed that all their banter was touched with a little more affection than they could afford to let on.

Arthur, particularly, had withdrawn. They hardly saw each other outside Arthur’s flat- despite Hunith’s obvious indifference, Arthur had refused to trust even her.

Camelot had won five-nil, but Merlin still couldn’t bring himself to smile. All he wanted was to congratulate Arthur on the way he’d scored the third goal, but he knew he’d have to confine himself to a text message. If he even dared to put a kiss on the end, Arthur would delete it immediately.

‘Penny for them?’ Will’s long-diluted Scouse accent penetrated Merlin’s bitter bubble.

‘Nothing I can trouble you with,’ Merlin bit his lip. ‘That’s half the problem.’

Will slid down the bank of lockers to sit with Merlin on the staffroom floor.

‘You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want, but I want to let you know I’m your friend, and I’m here for you.’

‘Cheers. I just feel like shit.’

‘Only three things that can do that: love, money and family. Which is it?’

‘Love.’

‘Ah,’ Will sighed, before a thought occurred to him. ‘Shit, it’s not my fault, is it?’

Merlin laughed.

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘Alright, there’s no need for that,’ Will protested. ‘Here was me feeling like a bastard for dumping an eighteen-year-old as quickly as I picked him up, and it turns out he’s the bastard.’

‘Oh, Will, no,’ Merlin laughed. ‘I didn’t mean that. You remember why you dumped me?’

‘Because that closet case was all possessive over you, and I have more sense in me than to stand in the way of a Premiership footballer and his quarry. Again.’

‘Again?’ Merlin gaped.

‘Another story, another time,’ Will gestured as if to waft the story away. ‘I’m supposed to be cheering you up.’

‘Anyway, the closet case is the problem. More specifically, the closet is the problem.’

Will sighed.

‘Merlin, I make no bones about the fact that I love football in about the same measure as I despise footballers. And yes, that does have an awful lot to do with that story which isn’t going to get told now.’

‘I can’t despise him.’

‘No, you can’t,’ Will sighed. ‘The closet isn’t the problem, Merlin, it’s what’s waiting for him if he comes out if it. If he matters, let him know. Don’t let this poison things.’

Merlin nodded as Will walked away, his job done. Knowing there was very little else to be done, Merlin texted Arthur.

_Well done for doing your job. X_

He was exiting the building when the reply came.

_Well done for being wonderful. Meet me tomorrow, 3 ravens, half four- just us. Help me with my ego. Xx_

~ ~ ~

Merlin and Arthur were the only people in the pub that afternoon, littering the tables with newspaper cuttings.

‘The journalistic community is completely bonkers for you, Arthur.’

‘So are you,’ Arthur smirked, in a low voice. Merlin kicked him under the table, and picked up one of the cuttings.

‘Today’s Mail on Sunday: “Pendragon’s double yesterday sealed the fourth win of the month for historically underachieving Camelot. His contribution has elevated them to eighth in the table…” then there’s some crap about Kai and Daniel and blah. Why are the Germans Camelot’s most popular players?’

‘Germans are naturally better-looking,’ explained Arthur. ‘Kai and Daniel are prime examples. If Kai wasn’t a twat most of the time, and if Daniel actually spoke a word of English, you’d have competition.’

‘Oh, look who’s suddenly looking comfortable with his newfound sexuality.’ Merlin grinned, checking that Morgana was nowhere to be seen before pecking Arthur on the cheek. ‘Anyway, Germans are not better-looking.’

‘Maybe not on average,’ Arthur sighed, ‘But those Germans that are good looking are better looking than say, a good-looking Italian.’

‘Outrage!’

‘It’s true! I mean, look at Michael Ballack. Undeniably the second most attractive footballer-’

‘The most attractive being you?’

‘Thank you for saying so,’ smirked Arthur, as if he hadn’t been digging for the compliment. Merlin shot him a raised eyebrow. ‘Undeniably the second most attractive footballer in the world. The only criticism I’ve heard made against him was that he looks like a cross between Brad Pitt and Matt Damon.’

‘That was made against him?’

‘By Gwaine. I think it was resentment, to be honest.’

‘That I can believe. I’m resentful of anyone who doesn’t have jug ears.’

‘Aw. I like your jug ears,’ Arthur soothed, flicking one of the ears in question in a less-than-sympathetic manner.

‘Right. Last week’s Sun: “Camelot hero Artie P. may lose his crown after missing a screamer at Upton Park in the 3-1 win over the Hammers. Visiting fans despaired in the twelfth minute when the blond chose to kick with his useless right foot.”’

‘Oh, you… shut up.’

‘It goes on: “Thank God for Steven Valiant, who put two past Rob Green, before-”’

Arthur tickled Merlin, knocking him off his stool and onto the ground. He knelt beside him and tried to place a kiss on Merlin’s lips, but the brunet stopped him.

‘What about Morgana? What about another customer?’

‘All sorted,’ Arthur smiled. ‘Oh come on, Merlin, do you really think I’d take any chances?’

A little clenching in Merlin’s gut reminded him that he occasionally wished Arthur would. He wished they could be open about this relationship. He shook it off- he was being selfish.

‘What have you done?’ he smiled, eager to hear what devilish plan Arthur might have concocted to ensure their privacy.

‘I asked Morgana to lock us in. Told her I’d pay double what she takes on a Sunday.’

‘You sneaky get!’

‘I prefer to think of myself as dastardly.’

‘Why here? Of all places? The pub- it’s not exactly romantic.’

‘This pub is special. It’s our pub. It’s the pub that provided the booze that made you mad enough to kiss me in the first place.’

‘Oh? Well then; I suppose you’d better remind me what it was like.’

What followed was one of the most unusual, and the most alcohol free (but by no means sober) lock-ins of all time.

~ ~ ~

The lock-in had come at a price.

Merlin had eventually escaped his own flat by dropping off a first floor balcony and hoping for the best. He kept Gwen’s scarf wrapped around his face and a set of aviators on. Luckily, it was both cold and bright that spring, so he was not excessively conspicuous.

As he walked past the Three Ravens, a sign caught his eye that perhaps should have done much earlier. That way, what had happened wouldn’t have happened.

_Morgana Levy, licensed to sell all intoxicating liquor for consumption either on or off the premises._

Morgana Levy, daughter of Gorlois Levy. Morgana Levy, whose father had died in a plane crash during the summer of 2000, when she was only twelve. Morgana Levy, youngest child of Vivienne Gorlois, who was not old enough to understand as her father did that Mummy had loved somebody else, and left them. Morgana Levy, who had for years harboured the silent agony of the orphan and who remembered the blond boy she used to watch their fathers play football with, and begrudged him his life of luxury and fame. Morgana Levy, who when the call had come in from Nimueh Jackson, had been only too willing to sell her soul.

~ ~ ~

Arthur sat on the edge of his bed alone that Monday morning. Joyously, the press had decided to keep him in the loop by putting a copy of the morning’s _Sun_ in his letterbox, otherwise, he might not have realised that the army of hacks and paps pressed up against the door to the block of flats were actually waiting for him.

He had disconnected his telephone shortly after six that morning, and having seen the reason someone had decided it was appropriate to call him at that hour, was not inclined to plug it in again. His mobile died every time he tried to turn it back on, such was the number of missed calls and texts waiting for him.

Someone would realise something was up when he failed to turn up for training. Even if they didn’t, he probably had enough food to survive for at least the next three days. Perhaps after those three days he could try and contact the outside world- Leon or Lance or someone- and try and get more food. The journalists outside would go away eventually. Probably.

As little as he wanted to look at it, if he was ever going to face the music, ne needed to read that paper. Nimueh Jackson had dug up practically everyone who had ever disliked him to write nonsense about him. Sadly, the truth at the core of it was undeniable, as the pictures of he and Merlin in the Three Ravens left only to the imagination what had been graciously pixellated out by the editor.

He changed into his training kit and gathered his stuff together. Football was the answer. Football had always been the answer.

When Arthur reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the journalists pressed up against the one-way glass desperately trying to catch a glimpse of him, he stopped. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go out there.

He sat on the bottom step and waited for someone to notice he was missing.

~ ~ ~

Merlin had managed to wangle the Monday training session shifts at the practise ground. A little extra money was certainly welcome, even if the task didn’t come with the same reward as on matchdays.

He didn’t really want to come into contact with any of the players, who were leaving the facility. He knew a lot of them would recognise him, and he didn’t know most of them well enough to know what their reactions would be. So, he waited by the car park until he could see it was clear of Porsches, BMWs and the occasional Range Rover. Arthur’s Merc was nowhere to be seen, perhaps unsurprisingly.

Despite his hiding place, he couldn’t avoid the disappointed look Lance shot him from across the car park. He was grateful that the older man seemed too angry even to speak with him; he couldn’t face him, nor anyone else.

He’d been stupid. He’d let his personal feelings get in the way and he’d most likely ruined Arthur’s career. The players probably thought he’d sold the story. Of course, Merlin knew he never could, and Arthur knew he never would. Their relationship had been hidden, though, and there would be a lot of explaining to do- just not today.

‘Hiding, are we?’

A voice behind him made him jump, not wanting to turn around. Then Merlin placed it.

‘Will,’ he smiled. ‘Yes, I am. Have you not seen the papers?’

‘You mean, have I not seen your naked form splashed across two full-colour tabloid pages? Of course I have.’

‘It’s awful, Will,’ Merlin hung his head.

‘Nothing I haven’t seen before, if that helps. Well, on your part. Quite a lot I hadn’t seen from Pendragon.’

Merlin was glad he and Will had fallen so neatly into being friends. He really needed one that day, even one as ridiculously outspoken as Will.

‘What am I going to do, Will?’

‘Chin up, head down, cock in your pants while it all blows over,’ he shrugged. ‘To be honest, not something I’ve dealt with before.’

They walked to the shed where the line painting and turf maintenance kit was kept, Will always finding a quip in response to Merlin’s grim wails. As they approached, Dagonet looked at Merlin quizzically.

‘What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message?’

‘Phone’s not working,’ Merlin shrugged. ‘Too many calls. What was it about?’

Dagonet scratched the back of his neck.

‘Can I speak to you alone?’ he asked.

Merlin shot Will a look that told him not to go anywhere. Will translated for Dagonet.

‘Merlin’s having a bit of a shite day. I’ll stay with him.’

‘To be honest, that’s what this is about,’ Dagonet said, fiddling with some paperwork. ‘Merlin, did you by any chance read your contract before you signed it?’

‘The relevant paragraphs,’ Merlin said slowly.

‘Did you think paragraph 3.4 was relevant?’

‘Well, funnily enough, I can’t recall it off the top of my head.’

Dagonet handed him a copy of his own contract. As Merlin grew white, his eyes scanning the page, Will read over his shoulder.

‘Section three, conditions for dismissal. Paragraph four. Any behaviour by staff, either legal or illegal, deemed to bring the club or its players, staff or premises into disrepute, is condition for immediate dismissal,’ Will snatched the paper from Merlin’s grasp, if only to stop him repeatedly reading it over to himself. ‘You’re firing him?’

‘His employment is terminated, yes,’ Dagonet shrugged. ‘I had no choice; it’s there in black and white.’

‘Black and white? You could fire him for tying his shoelaces if you decided that it brought the club into disrepute. This can’t be legal.’

‘It’s in the contract; it was there when he signed it, and it was there when you signed it. You didn’t complain about it then.’

‘Nobody reads this shit,’ snarled Will, hurling the sheaf of papers into the wind, where they scattered. ‘Nobody ever reads it, and you know it. You’re taking advantage of that fact for your own agenda.’

‘Will,’ Merlin whispered. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘Yes, Merlin, I do,’ Will growled, throwing an arm around his shoulders. ‘This is a homophobic witch-hunt. I know it is, and I’m not afraid to say it. Fire me instead. I’m gay, Merlin’s not. I’m the one you want. I had this one nuts-deep in me before Pendragon thought him worthy of even resting his bollocks on.’

Bewildered by a mix of gratitude and embarrassment, Merlin sat in the eye of the shitstorm and waited for it to close around him.

‘You’re fired,’ Dagonet said to Will. ‘Both of you.’

They both walked back to the bus stop in silence for a long time. Eventually, Will started laughing. Merlin couldn’t help but join in.

‘I never had you down as a militant homosexual,’ Merlin smiled.

‘Nor did I,’ Will admitted. ‘It wasn’t really because I’m gay. I just don’t like anyone who thinks they can treat people like that. I couldn’t have worked for him after that.’

‘Thanks. And sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Will smiled. ‘I just hope Pendragon’s worth it.’

Merlin smiled. He hoped so too.

~ ~ ~

It was eight-thirty at night and nearly all the journalists had cleared from outside Arthur’s block. Despite this, nobody had come to see him.

They hadn’t noticed. The world had kept on spinning, despite the fact that Arthur Pendragon hadn’t played a part in any of it today. He’d just hidden on a staircase. His hands were black from thumbing the grubby pages of the tabloid endlessly.

He looked at Merlin’s picture. Merlin. All this for Merlin. All worth it. Then the knife twisted in his gut as he realised that not even Merlin had come to see him. Perhaps he wasn’t worth as much to Merlin as he might have hoped.

His body aching from a day sat on a marble slab, he scaled the stairs to his flat once more. He tried to go to bed but it was no use- the faint smell of Merlin on the pillow beside him taunted him. It was something he may never again enjoy, and he felt like that would kill him.

His chest felt as if it was going to burst. He lay in the dark for hours, alone, until he could take it no longer. Arthur wept.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


	11. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As things go from bad to worse, Arthur exposes some old secrets. His desperate attempts to fix things only result in stronger opposition, and time is running out on his career.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for S3. Thanks for reading; it's nearly over. It's been fun (if difficult), but I'm glad if you've enjoyed it half as much as I have.

It wasn’t Merlin’s first funeral of course, but there’s no getting used to certain experiences. For a start, he wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to feel.

Betrayed was top of the list, naturally. That wasn’t unusual for a suicide, but in this case it was even worse. He wasn’t even sure he was supposed to be here. He felt somehow guilty, like he should have been paying closer attention. As if he could undo the events of a few days ago just by having better attention to detail. He couldn’t let himself rule it out. Maybe a life had been lost because he wasn’t fully on the ball.

The football metaphor stung a little. He wondered what else had happened in the name of football. For fuck’s sake. It was only kicking a little leather ball around. Maybe the whole world should grow up and forget about football.

He placed his hand over Gwen’s, if only to try and stem the tears that had silently traced their way down her features all morning. She glanced at him, nearly smiling, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

He wasn’t sure he felt sad, like one ought at a funeral. The thing about suicide is that the deceased made their own decision. You can only miss them, never pity them.

Merlin didn’t think Morgana ever wanted to be pitied. Perhaps that’s why she never mentioned who she really was… maybe Gorlois Levy’s orphaned daughter wasn’t who she really was.

Merlin stole a glance at Arthur. He wondered how the blond felt- he had found and lost a childhood friend in a single day. It was common knowledge that Gorlois and Vivienne Levy had a child, but it had never seemed important to find out who she was.

It was important though. That was the reason they were there that morning, and Morgana wasn’t.

~ ~ ~

‘I might learn to enjoy not playing football after all,’ Arthur said dully as they walked back to Merlin’s.

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do. During a match is the only time I can walk in the street with you. Camelot fans,’ he spat the word, ‘are safely in the pub.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Merlin sighed.

‘Why should you be?’

‘If you hadn’t been trying to make me happy…’

‘I was trying to make myself happy, Merlin. I wasn’t happy before. I had things on my mind, I hated myself for it. It was stupid, and now I know that. I just wish everyone else did. You know the official line on why I’m dropped? So I have time to deal with the media intrusion.’

‘It could help.’

‘Bollocks it could.’

They walked up the stairs in silence, and Merlin got out his keys. They still hadn’t talked about Morgana.

‘Why do you think Morgana did it?’ Arthur asked finally, once they were safely cocooned in the flat, a few stray hacks dodged outside the door. ‘You knew her better than I did.’

Arthur seemed sad about that. He had dim recollections of a dark-haired girl who used to sit with him in the stands, along with whoever’s mother was supposed to be looking after them that week. The two motherless children, passed from one footballer’s wife to the next. Their absent mothers had been all they had in common.

‘I don’t think I really knew her either, Arthur. She kept herself to herself. She’d apparently struggled with mental illness for years. I know she suffered with insomnia. That’s half the reason she ran the pub so well. She was awake at all hours.’

‘It must have been horrible,’ Arthur remarked. Merlin nodded.

‘It doesn’t excuse her, though. She had no argument with you.’

‘I had what was rightfully hers,’ he shrugged. ‘Gorlois wasn’t her real father.’

‘What?’

‘My father had an… affair… with her mother; it started long before she divorced Gorlois. Morgana was my half-sister. Gorlois could count, he knew he’d been the reserve keeper for Northern Ireland in the Mexico World Cup at the time, and he also knew what his supposed best friend was capable of. Still, he had a daughter, something he never thought he would get a second chance at after Vivienne put his first child up for adoption. So he let Morgana grow up none the wiser.’

‘When did she find out?’

‘When Gorlois died. He hadn’t left a will, and his sister proved Morgana wasn’t his real child. So, she inherited nothing. My father paid into a fund for her, but it really wasn’t much. Probably just enough to get that pub. Certainly nothing compared to my life.’

‘Shit.’

‘Indeed.’

Merlin stuck the radio on. Arthur didn’t have the strength to complain. He was sick of football, and that was a day he thought he’d never see.

It was the West Brom half of the Black Country derby. They couldn’t have been playing more than twenty minutes, and yet the scoreline was a miserable three nil to Albion.

‘I hate not being able to do anything,’ Arthur sighed as the fourth goal went in.

‘Me too. This is how all fans feel.’

‘Yes, Merlin, but I actually could do something.’

What could Merlin say? He could hardly tell him that, seeing as Camelot had never lost a match he had watched, he must have some sort of magical powers. He could hardly tell him that all he need do was picture a goal, and the ball would land just as he expected. Instead, he simply leant his head on Arthur’s shoulder.

They listened as things went from bad to worse for Camelot. With no defence, and no attack, they were powerless to prevent the humiliation of seven goals without reply. In the end, the final whistle felt like mercy.

‘Why can’t I play, Merlin?’ Arthur asked quietly.

‘It’s not up to me. If it were, you’d be playing, no question.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing.’

‘I know.’

‘How do I tell them that?’ Arthur pleaded, shuffling Merlin off his shoulder.

‘Who?’

‘The fans. There’s only one way a football fan is ever going to believe I can be good enough. If I prove it.’

‘On the pitch,’ Merlin sighed.

Arthur nodded.

‘What if I never play again?’ he asked, suddenly younger than Merlin had ever seen him.

‘You will. There’ll be a way.’

There had to be a way. Camelot without Arthur was nearly as heartbreaking as Arthur without Camelot.

~ ~ ~

Arthur turned off the engine, but stayed in the car. He was early to training, as usual, but he knew this wouldn’t be an ordinary training session.

This was his first training session back since he was outed. He had to face his teammates, who must have once thought him friends, and explain himself.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be explaining, either. He had turned it over in his head, but how could he explain something that was as natural to him as not eating carrots, or preferring 80s music? It was just his character, something about him, like anything else.

A small part of him was angry, angry that he should have to explain this. He was gay. Not bisexual, not experimenting, but gay. He wasn’t doing it for attention. He wasn’t being young and reckless. He was actually gay.

Maybe this would have been easier over the ‘phone. Still, the hacks had put paid to that as well. He had tried to turn on his mobile, but the second hundreds of texts came through from this or that journalist, he had to tear the battery out just to get it to shut up. He’d been cut off, forced into using only face-to-face communication, and it scared him.

He needed to get out of the car eventually. The other players would be turning up any minute, and he certainly didn’t want to be seen hiding in his Merc. He gathered up his courage, and stepped out.

He was already in his training kit, and began to jog around the perimeter of the practise pitch. On the other side of the chain-link, he could see a security guard arguing with a photographer. All of this because of him; it was ridiculous.

As Arthur rounded the corner, he could see a familiar figure jogging towards him. Lance. Thank God.

‘Arthur,’ the man nodded as he came within earshot. How could he stay so calm?

‘We need a plan,’ Arthur murmured as Lance came a little nearer. ‘This isn’t going to get better unless we stick together.’

Lance raised an eyebrow.

‘You need to talk to me first. I thought we were friends, Arthur. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You know what the dressing room’s like! You know what the game’s like. It’s just a joke to everyone. It’s not supposed to happen.’

‘Except it does, and you’d have to be an idiot to think there aren’t any gay footballers out there. Any other gay footballers, I should say. You are, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t you read the papers?’ Arthur asked bitterly. ‘Every male D-lister has had a piece of me, apparently.’

‘You know what I mean. I want to hear it from you.’

‘Yes, I’m gay. Not bisexual, not experimenting, properly one hundred per cent homosexual.’ He paused before asking, ‘did you know?’

Lance sighed.

‘I wish I’d thought. Never crossed my mind though, until…’

‘Until what?’

‘That snake, Valiant. I don’t know how he got you pegged, but he did. I’d bet any money it was him who stitched us both up.’

‘Can’t prove anything, though, Lance.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you think we’ll play again? Either of us?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lance admitted. ‘It’s an unprecedented situation. My contract runs for another year and a half. If it looks like I’ll never play again, I’ve still got the income, and I’ll keep an eye out for what I might do next.’

‘I only signed for a year,’ Arthur sighed. He’d known it was stupid at the time.

‘Shit. When do you run out?’

‘August second.’

That meant that Arthur would be out within months. Unless he could redeem himself soon, he would be disinherited, unemployed and outcast.

‘So we do need a plan,’ admitted Lance.

‘No, I need a plan.’

‘Arthur, you’re my best friend. I’ve known you since you were sixteen, and I know that football means more to you than anything. I know you wouldn’t let anything affect your game, and I won’t believe that you being gay or otherwise has made the slightest difference. I don’t think there’s a man on this team who’d believe that it has, not if they thought about it. We’re going to get ourselves out of this.’

‘Both of us?’ Arthur smiled.

‘Nope,’ grinned Lance, pointing at the figures who were assembling at the other end of the field. ‘All of us.’

‘Shit.’

Before Arthur knew it, Lance had broken into a run towards the rest of the team, and he had no choice but to follow. All eyes were on him as he slowed down in front of the group. Leon was there, Gwaine, Percival, Kai, Bedi, a few faces from the second team. He took a moment to get his breath back, hoping that somebody would speak. Nobody did.

‘I owe you an apology,’ Arthur began. ‘And not for being gay. I can’t help that any more than I can being a better shot than any of you.’

Murmurs of amusement.

‘Hardly,’ said Gwaine.

‘I should have told you, but I was scared. I was scared of losing my place in the team, but I think that might happen anyway. You are my team-mates; I count you as my friends and I should have trusted you. I’m sorry.’

Leon shook his hand.

‘Apology accepted.’

There were murmurs of agreement from the assembled group. Percy coughed nervously.

‘If it helps take the pressure off, Arthur, I’m happy to admit to being bisexual. Just don’t tell the gaffer. Or Val. I already told Leon-’

‘I am good with that sort of thing if anyone has anything else,’ Leon interrupted.

‘-And Gwaine found out,’ Percy continued as Gwaine nodded in agreement. ‘You’re all my friends too, and I trust you to keep this between yourselves. And if you don’t, you know I’m five inches taller than any of you, and, as typically calm and peaceful as I am, I will have no qualms about kicking the living shit out of you.’

There were a few smiles. Strong as he was, Percy was bluffing. He wasn’t capable of hurting anyone he considered a friend- but nor were they capable of betraying him.

As Arthur shook Percival’s hand, he suddenly realised that it might have been nice to have his friends’ support a few months earlier. Why he never asked for it he had no idea.

A shout came from the car park exit.

‘Team sheet, Leon!’

It was Uther. A few more players were arriving now, Monmouth, the goalkeepers and, sickeningly, Stephen Valiant. Arthur avoided his gaze.

Leon ran his eyes over the team sheet, and looked at Uther.

‘This is for Chelsea?’ he asked, unconvinced. ‘The FA Cup semi-final?’

‘They’re strong in defence,’ Uther explained. ‘A more experienced setup will probably serve us well.’

‘And by probably, you mean what?’ asked Leon.

‘We don’t expect to win, but we’ll do our best.’

‘Daniel,’ he read from the card. ‘Kai, Gaz, Hector. Me. Gwaine, Geoff, Lionel, Johnno, Luke.’

Mutterings. Lance and Arthur’s numbers had been skipped. Unless Leon was using a semi-random order, they weren’t in the team. They weren’t even on the bench.

‘Claudin, Percy, Stevie, Tom, Howel and Bedi,’ Leon finished. ‘Has anyone got any questions?’

Silence for a moment. Then, Geoff Monmouth coughed.

‘I can’t help but notice that either I or Tom is being expected to score on Saturday. Unless you’re expecting us to play together? Because I haven’t done a full ninety all season.’

‘You put yourself down, Geoff,’ Uther smiled.

‘No, Uther. I’m thirty four. I’ve scored six goals this season, seven in all competitions. You’re cutting your nose off to spite your face.’

‘I know you’ve been here a long time, but you forget who the manager is. Tom, think you can rise to the challenge?’

He turned to Tom Lincoln, seventeen years old and generally full of the headstrong self-belief that brings.

‘I’m flattered. Or rather, I would be if this was about me. I can’t take the lead either. And you know that.’

‘Well. You’re going to have to. That’s my team sheet, and it’s my decision who I want to play,’ Uther turned to go.

‘And it’s our decision to decide to play or not,’ Gwaine spoke up.

‘Au contraire, Mr Knight,’ Uther turned back slowly. ‘That’s breach of contract. If you decide not to play, the club has the option to fine you.’

Gwaine stood fast.

‘No. You don’t. We have the right to strike, as long as we take a vote on it. We don’t play unless Arthur and Lance do. If you really believed in this team, they’d be on that piece of paper,’ Gwaine looked about the group. ‘Who stands with me?’

‘I’m the team captain,’ asserted Leon. ‘I won’t let Camelot go in at reduced strength. I vote with Gwaine.’

‘I’ve already said where I stand,’ Geoff shrugged.

‘Me too,’ agreed Tom. ‘Even if it means I don’t play, if it means we have a chance, I’ll give that up.’

‘Arthur and Lance are my friends. They’re all our friends. I’m not going to turn my back on them,’ Percy said.

Bedi translated for Claudin and Lionel, before all three voted for the strike.

‘That’s half the team sheet,’ commented Kai Ordner. ‘If I vote to exclude myself unless Lance and Arthur are reinstated, that’s a majority. No rewrite, no match. And I vote for a strike.’

Uther stood in silent fury.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ breathed Valiant.

‘Geoff, Tristan, you’re out. Leon, pencil Arthur and Mr Dulac back on the list, will you?’

Tristan shook hands with Lance.

‘There’s no better man to take my place,’ he nodded.

‘Thanks. And I’m sorry,’ Lance replied.

‘Now, once we’ve all finished throwing tantrums,’ Uther seethed. ‘I want to see ten laps of the pitch. Now.’

It was worth it. For all of them, it was worth it.

~ ~ ~

Of course, Arthur and Lance had ended up on the bench. Tom Lincoln was trying, but aside from cup matches he had never started a full game. Camelot’s weakened right flank was also taking a punishing, Hector Morris’ lack of speed providing openings for three Chelsea goals.

As Drogba, Malouda and Lampard executed their finishes, goalkeeper Daniel became more and more animated, until neither Kai nor Bedi were willing to translate for him.

‘What’s he saying, Kai?’ Uther asked as the full back jogged forward after a scrambled clearance.

‘Let’s just say his mother would send him to his room if she found out. Essentially, we need someone on the right.’

Uther paced the technical area. He and Arthur hadn’t spoken since the papers did their worst. Arthur knew his father’s moods, and he had never seen him so angry. He wondered if they’d ever speak again.

In the dressing room at half time, the mood was palpable. Ten out of eleven players thought Arthur and Lance should have been on that pitch, and the eleventh was Valiant. Leon and Uther spent most of the break in animated discussion, and it didn’t take much to figure out why.

‘You’re on,’ Leon nodded at Arthur, before turning to Lance. ‘You too. This isn’t over yet.’

This wasn’t the time for a stirring team talk. They were three goals down, and it was serious business. Leon talked to them all in turn, restoring their self-belief.

They hadn’t been playing poorly because Arthur and Lance weren’t playing. They weren’t the only decent players on the team, by any means. The problem was that the other players knew that Arthur and Lance should have been there, and why their manager was letting them go into battle unprepared was beyond them. Uther cared less about Camelot than he did keeping his dominion free of undesirables, and it stung them.

Leon’s diplomacy brought them back to strength, and when he played a corner in shortly after the restart, it was the reinvigorated Lance who headed the ball in from the near post. Just five minutes later, Gwaine chanced a stunning 30-yard drive he never would have dreamed of going for were his confidence not at a high. It went in, and amazed Camelot fans found that they were very much back in the game.

~ ~ ~

With no pub to trick Gwen into attending, Merlin had to resort to honesty in his invitation to watch the F.A. Cup semi-final.

‘If they score again, will you stop being so tense?’ she asked after an hour and a half of watching Merlin bury himself in the scarf she had knitted him.

‘Why aren’t you nervous? Lance is out there. Gwen, there’s only two minutes left of the game.’

‘Merlin! Don’t worry.’

She pulled him into a hug, then thought.

‘Is this about Arthur or football?’

Merlin shrugged.

‘Both, maybe. No,’ he sighed. ‘It’s Arthur. If they lose now, he might never play again. It’s not just about football any more. It’s more important, so much more important.’

‘You’re growing up,’ Gwen smiled. ‘A year ago, you’d never have said that.’

Merlin wasn’t listening. Arthur was one-on-one with Chelsea goalkeeper Petr Cech, and full back Ashley Cole was bearing down on him.

‘Arthur!’ he shouted at the screen. It was ludicrous, but he wanted Arthur to hear him.

~ ~ ~

‘Arthur!’

Merlin’s voice resounded through Arthur’s head. Suddenly, he knew how to score. He feigned a shot, Cech dived, leaving him with just Cole to contend with. He stayed cool, dodging around the England international and firing the ball home.

The impossibility of what had just happened didn’t occur to him. A system full of adrenaline was the only explanation Arthur needed as the referee’s whistle signalled the end of normal time.

~ ~ ~

‘Hunith, can I ask you something?’

Gwen seemed worried, loitering in the kitchen doorway.

‘Go on,’ Hunith smiled.

‘Have you ever noticed something about Merlin’s… eyes?’

‘Yes,’ the older woman admitted, putting down her rolling pin. ‘What did you see?’

‘I’ve seen it before. Always thought it might be my imagination, but it’s not, is it? They turn gold.’

‘You’ve been his best friend for years. I suppose you were bound to notice eventually,’ Hunith sighed. ‘Merlin has magic. He doesn’t really know, but as a child he suspected. It’s not much, and it doesn’t happen very often. His eyes glow, and then things happen. Little things. Things that could be explained another way. Except it happens too often, and you reach the conclusion that there’s something else going on.’

‘Magic?’ Gwen repeated.

‘Only way I can explain it,’ she shrugged. ‘What did he do this time?’

Gwen thought.

‘Camelot scored a goal. Right at the end of the game,’ she realised.

Hunith chuckled.

‘He might be magic, but he’s still predictable.’

~ ~ ~

Arthur took a swig of water and stretched his aching limbs, ignoring the abuse being shrieked at him from the Chelsea stand by a couple of teenagers. A nearby steward did nothing.

‘We can’t let this go to penalties,’ Uther growled quietly to the assembled team. ‘I know you’re tired, but if you want to win this, it’ll be easier won in the next half hour than if it goes to penalties.’

Camelot’s takers were good, but nothing compared to Chelsea. Gwaine, Camelot’s dead ball expert, had already been subbed off back when it looked like the fight was over. There was small consolation in the fact that Didier Drogba was also unavailable for Chelsea, but unlike Camelot, Chelsea had a whole array of near-equal talent to choose from.

‘Do your best,’ Uther sighed. ‘If anything’s become clear in the last few days, it’s how much you want to win this. But so do they. And if we don’t make it through, I don’t want you to punish yourselves. You’ve all been heroic. All of you.’

Uther did not look at Arthur, but the young man felt as if his father’s speech had been directed at him. It was hardly reconciliation, but it was a start.

In less than a quarter of an hour, Valiant gave away a free kick, effortlessly sailed past the Camelot keeper by Chelsea midfielder Frank Lampard, and Camelot were back to where they were accustomed- on the losing team.

They weren’t letting go, however. Nodding to Leon, Arthur exchanged the ball with his captain at the restart, before dribbling nearly half the length of the pitch, dodging attempts by what seemed like half of Chelsea’s glittering lineup. His wages paled in comparison with these players, some earning nearly three times in a day what he earned in a week.

Faced with Chelsea captain John Terry he could go no further, but Leon was waiting. He crossed the ball in, and his own captain slid the ball into the bottom corner.

They were back in the game, but as time ticked away in the second half of extra time, the nightmare of penalties looked like it might come true. Percy was run ragged in defence, and their attacking strategy was more hopeful than refined.

Out of nowhere, Stephen Valiant stumbled upon a stray ball and dinked it past the ‘keeper. For a moment, nobody could believe it, but then the final whistle blew, and Camelot were headed for the first cup final in their history.

Arthur stumbled as Gwaine barrelled into him, having run from the touchline roaring with triumph. It was as if they had won the cup already. There were people to congratulate in every direction. Leon, for his perfect timing. Percy, for the sheer effort he used holding the defence together. Lance, who started the comeback.

Yet there was one man who, despite his personal failings, Arthur couldn’t get away with ignoring. Stephen Valiant. Arthur planned his route carefully, aiming to spend as little time with the vile man as possible.

As if it wasn’t hard enough to bring himself to do the right thing, Valiant blanked him as he approached. Arthur steeled himself. In theory, it should have been easy, but the thought that it was probably this man who had ruined his chance of a peaceful, secret relationship with Merlin- it hurt.

He clapped Valiant on the back.

‘Nice goal,’ he said, desperately choking down the anger that bubbled at his own lie.

Valiant wheeled around.

‘Don’t you fucking touch me, you poof.’

Arthur was stung. This was ridiculous. His lip curled.

‘I don’t even like you, Valerie, let alone want to stick my cock in you. I just thought we could be grown-up about this.’

‘Yeah? Well, back off. Your… perversion has got nothing to do with me. I’m not going to be part of your sick fantasies.’

Valiant walked away.

‘Don’t turn your back,’ Arthur mocked. ‘God knows what I’ll do.’

Valiant gritted his teeth.

~ ~ ~

‘Before I make a final decision on my team sheet for Wednesday, I need to speak to one of you privately,’ Uther announced at training the following Monday. ‘Arthur?’

It was the first time his father had even spoken to him directly since the story hit the papers. Part of Arthur’s heart leapt at the hope of reconciliation, but he wasn’t stupid. He walked to one side with Uther, waiting for the older man to speak.

‘Arthur, this is very difficult for me,’ he murmured. ‘There’s been a complaint.’

The word ‘complaint’ sounded like a euphemism for something altogether worse.

‘What about?’

‘You have allegedly, and obviously it’s just his word against yours, but you allegedly threatened another member of the team.’

‘Threatened?’ Arthur was surprised. ‘How?’

‘You’re my son, Arthur, don’t make me spell it out.’

‘I really don’t know what I’ve supposedly done.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Uther growled, eyeing the other players, who were milling about the pitch. ‘The allegation is that you threatened sexual violence against another member of the team.’

‘What?’ Arthur protested. ‘Tell me this is a joke. Who? When?’

‘If it is a joke, it’s not very funny. On Saturday. And obviously I can’t tell you who that is, under the circumstances…’

‘The circumstances? So he can say what he wants about me, but I can’t know who he is?’

‘He says you threatened him. How am I to know you’re not going to carry that out?’

Arthur’s face fell.

‘You believe him?’

‘What am I supposed to think?’ snapped Uther. ‘I don’t know anything about you any more.’

‘You know I’m not like that!’

‘So what you’re saying is, the papers were lying, those pictures are fabricated?’

‘Oh, God. There’s a difference between sex and bloody rape!’

A series of emotions threatened to contort Uther’s features, but he held firm.

‘I never thought I’d have to think of my own son… as someone like that. So, excuse me if I don’t feel I know what you’re capable of any more.’

‘Someone like what?’ Arthur was incredulous. ‘Someone like what?’

‘Don’t make me say it, Arthur. You’re my son. You know I love you more than anything, but this is too much.’

His father’s love. Something Arthur had always wanted. At the back of his mind, he really wanted to believe it, but there was a problem.

‘Love is unconditional,’ Arthur looked his father square in the eye.

‘Of course, Arthur. I will love you, no matter what. But that doesn’t mean I have to let you make mistakes. It means I’ll be there for you when you do.’

‘Mistakes? Dad, what did I do?’

‘Here,’ Uther handed him the internal incident report.

Arthur’s eyes widened when he saw the offending phrase. He repeated his own words with disbelief.

‘Don’t turn your back; God knows what I’d do. Fuck.’

‘You see the problem?’ Uther asked.

‘It was a joke. A stupid joke.’

‘You can’t joke about rape. Especially not now everyone knows you… look that way,’ Uther watched his son come to terms with the report. ‘I need you to withdraw from matches for the rest of the season. Give the air time to clear. That way, there’s no need to take this further. This isn’t about… the other thing. Lance will play. Just keep your head down, Arthur.’

‘I’ll stay out of trouble,’ Arthur conceded.

‘Good man,’ Uther nodded.

‘I’ll stay out of trouble with Valiant, but not you. Why can’t you say it? Why all the euphemisms? The other thing. Looking that way. Mistakes. Someone like that. Why can’t you face me?’

‘Because, Arthur, you are my son. You are my only son. My only child, now, and the only family I have left. I know I failed Morgana, and I don’t like feeling like I failed you as well. That life, it isn’t the life I wanted for you. I didn’t think it was the life you wanted either. Arthur, I don’t want you to be unhappy. I don’t want this to be something you regret.’

Arthur let him walk away. What could he have said? He knew he could never regret following his heart, but he was just nineteen. It would seem so naïve, and that was not how he wanted Uther to see him. So he let it go for the time being. But he had a plan.

~ ~ ~

Merlin had to find himself a new pub. He was sick of hearing dismal Camelot results over the radio, and wanted to watch them live.

After having abuse shouted at him in the street for three weeks, he had resorted to his scarf-and-aviator combo again. True, the get-up still attracted raised eyebrows, but it was better than spit.

In the end, he settled on The Druids’ Arms, a shabby old-man type pub, with a moth-eaten Wolves scarf hanging in the window above a newer Camelot scarf. There was no big screen TV- in fact, all the televisions were of the old-fashioned CRT type, perched in each corner and eyed rigidly by grey men drinking warm beer.

It was already 1-0 to Blackburn.

‘Half of… Tetley,’ he said, attempting to fit in with the lager-shunning crowd. ‘What happened there?’

He gestured towards the nearest set.

‘I.D. first? And take off your glasses, you’re not fooling anyone. You are him, aren’t you? The bloke in the photos?’

‘Ah. I’ll go, if you don’t want me.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ the landlord smiled. ‘You’re one of us.’

‘One of…?’

‘Camelot fans, kid, not homosexuals. All I know is, we were doing a whole lot better before those photos came out- and don’t tell me you weren’t around long before that.’

Merlin nodded, flashing his provisional license.

‘It’s ridiculous, really,’ the landlord continued, pulling Merlin’s drink. ‘Some footballers cheat on their wives, sleep with prostitutes and do God knows what else, and they still play. Sad thing is, we probably need your man.’

‘We do,’ Merlin sighed, eyeing the score.

‘It was a fluke, the Blackburn goal. Still, we’ll have no reply. We just can’t get forward; we’re a bit toothless without him. It’s like they miss him.’

‘He misses it more.’

‘I’ll bet he does. Here’s your pint.’

‘Cheers.’

He’d asked for a half, and handed a few coins over as he eyed the glass warily. Clearly, a half was something you didn’t ask for in this place. He sighed, and settled in to watch absolutely nothing happen for the remaining hour of the game.

Not on the pitch anyway. In the stands, the fans were chanting for Arthur. Placards read ‘Artie come back’, and one person had even blown up a picture of Arthur, stuck a crown on it and captioned it ‘Arthur, Queen of Camelot’. Merlin felt that this was probably homophobic, but well-intentioned nonetheless.

God, Merlin hoped Arthur’s plan was going to work. Nobody would be happy if it didn’t.


	12. May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story ends as it began: with Camelot poised on the brink of the most exciting moment in their short history. The details however, are yet to be finalised: will it be a happily-ever-after ending for Merlin and Arthur?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming this far; I only hope I've met your expectations. I started this fic two and a half years ago, and to see it going into the world on its own has been massive. To those of you who've commented and supported me, thank you. I couldn't have done it without you.

Arthur sat in the tiny green room and watched the camera crew out of the corner of his eye.

‘Ignore us,’ said the cameraman. ‘Or at least try. We are going to be in the way quite a bit.’

‘Why is this room so small?’ the striker asked.

‘Creates the illusion of intimacy amongst the guests.’

The cameraman seemed friendly, wryly smiling at his own workplace. Television is all fiction; it has hardly moved on from the days of the circus troupes.

Arthur looked around him, as if expecting to see the other guests tucked up in the corners of the room.

Eventually, a door swung open and a runner with a badge on her chest reading “Rachel” escorted in four men that looked as if they had fallen out of the 1980s.

‘Can I get you any drinks?’ the girl asked.

All four men shrugged noncommittally, so she turned to Arthur.

‘Another tea?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he smiled, holding up his cup. If he had been any more charming, she’d have fainted.

Attempts to interact with the band failed miserably, and Arthur was grateful for the reappearance of Rachel with one of the other guests, an American singer he’d never heard of.

After the entrance of the last guest, Sir Alan Sugar (who Arthur had met as a child, when Sugar was chairman of Tottenham Hotspur) and much kerfuffle, Jonathan Ross himself arrived.

Arthur was finding the whole experience rather surreal. Ross greeted them all with jokes and went to ingratiate himself with the audience. It was apparent, that aside from Arthur, everyone else seemed to know what they were doing. Everyone moved at a pace that was almost too fast to see, busy doing things that Arthur didn’t even notice. Both the American singer and Sugar were relaxed, and were it not apparent that the two had nothing in common, they might have even been chatting.

He looked up to see a picture of Russell Brand just above his head. He thought he must have missed something; he thought Brand was the reason this was the last series of Friday Night? He didn’t think it polite to ask about it, though.

Rachel came back in, instructing Sugar that he was to be interviewed first, followed by the singer and finally, Arthur. Arthur couldn’t help but think that this was because his was the interview people would stay up to see.

He could have sold his story to one of the red tops, but he wasn’t all that enamoured with them at present. He didn’t want attention, either. He wanted to give people the truth. And if the truth forced Uther to change his stance, or, fuck it, accept that he was his son and he wasn’t going to change, then maybe it would be a good thing.

It had been the media that had got him into this mess, but it seemed like the only thing that could get him out. If he could get just half the people who had seen those pictures to see that he was just human maybe he would have a chance. If he could get Uther Pendragon to realise he was still his son, maybe he would have more than just a chance.

‘Shit, I’m nervous,’ he breathed to himself.

‘Don’t worry about it; this is your first interview, right?’ asked the singer.

‘Yeah.’

‘What are you plugging?’

‘He’s not plugging anything; it’s just for the publicity,’ Sugar interjected as he was being miked up.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that!’ Arthur protested.

‘It’s all for publicity,’ the singer scowled at the back of Sugar’s head. ‘What would you say it’s for?’

‘I just want to set the record straight,’ Arthur explained simply.

‘On the fact that everyone thinks he’s not,’ Sugar added.

‘Sorry, what?’ asked the American, making sure he had the right end of the stick.

‘The tabloid press are having a field day speculating about his sexuality.’

Arthur wanted to mention that he was still in the room, but he wasn’t sure he could get away with being indignant in the presence of a Knight of the Realm.

‘Oh, that old story. What are you telling them?’

‘He’s going to deny-’

‘I’m talking to Arthur!’ the singer cut Sugar off. Arthur was grateful.

‘I’m going to tell the truth: I am gay.’

It still felt strange to say it.

‘Best policy; be open about it.’

‘Yeah. Well, I haven’t really got a choice; it’s all over the papers.’

‘You should tell the truth whatever happens.’

‘I didn’t think I could.’

‘It’s a question of morality. Don’t ever lie. Not to yourself, not to anyone.’

‘It’s not so easy,’ Arthur smiled grimly. ‘Not for a footballer in this country.’

‘Why is that? Stephen Fry is a national treasure but you have to hide yourself? Look, if you’ve got a chance to change people’s perceptions, break down old barriers… surely you should do it?’

A shiver went down Arthur’s spine. He really had a chance to change things. To make things better, not only for himself but for those who would come after him.

‘Yeah. I am going to.’

~ ~ ~

Everyone knew about Arthur’s interview, and of Uther’s failure to stop transmission. Merlin, Hunith, Gwen, Lance and, of course, Arthur, had gathered in Hunith’s flat to await the broadcast. Gwen had even brought popcorn, but was refusing to put it in the microwave until the program started.

As the opening music started, the ‘phone rang. Hunith seemed surprised at whoever it was on the other end, glancing doubtfully in at Merlin.

‘Ar,’ she said finally. ‘Push buzzer three times quickly and I’ll open door.’

‘Who was that?’ Merlin asked as Ross chatted to the house band.

‘Someone trying to get into the block, only there’s three feet of paparazzi outside.’

‘Typical,’ Arthur snarled.

_‘…and have I got a show for you this evening. If we take a look inside my green room, we will find… The Drums, going to be performing for us later on… we also have Sir Alan Sugar, ladies and gentlemen. How are you doing, Sir Alan?’_

_‘I’m very well, thank you Jonathan.’_

_‘Sir Alan, what do you think of The Drums? Very smart young men, very dapper. Could they work for you, do you think?’_

_‘Oh, they are fairly smartly dressed, but that’s not what counts, is it?’_

Ross laughed.

_‘No, well, I’ll be talking to you later on. Who else have we got? Oh, it’s only Adam Lambert!’_

Huge screams of joy from the crowd. Hunith winced; had they no shame?

_‘Doesn’t he look well, ladies and gentlemen?’_

More screams from the women in the audience.

_‘And finally, last but not least, Arthur Pendragon is here with us this evening; give us a smile, Arthur!’_

_‘I wouldn’t dream of giving you anything else, Jonathan.’_

To the confused looks from Lance and Gwen, and the faintly disturbed one from Merlin, Arthur indignantly responded, ‘There’s a lot of pressure to say something!’

The door _buzbuzbuzz_ ed and Hunith pushed the button to let whoever was stuck outside, inside.

A couple of minutes later, Uther Pendragon walked into the living room. He awkwardly acknowledged Merlin before sitting down next to Hunith. Arthur pointedly ignored him.

Soon, it was time for the interview they had been waiting for.

_‘Should we get my next guest on, ladies and gentlemen?’_

A cheer from the crowd.

_‘Now, we were supposed to have the actor, very famous actor Jake Gyllenhaal on tonight.’_

Someone whooped.

_‘Calm down, woman, he’s not here. Jake Gyllenhaal, of course, of Brokeback Mountain fame, right? Well, he couldn’t make it; he’s stuck in the States; God knows what he’s doing there, but anyway. Here tonight we have the star of Britain’s very own Brokeback Camelot scandal.’_

Pictures appeared on the screen of various newspaper back pages while Ross provided more filler.

_‘Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Arthur Pendragon.’_

The house band did an appalling rendition of ‘Football’s Coming Home’ as Arthur stepped out, waved, and went to shake hands with Ross.

 _‘How interesting; playing an English football anthem to a Welsh footballer,’_ Arthur said, once all the noise had died down.

 _‘Well, of course we knew you were Welsh,’_ Ross explained, giving a look to camera to suggest he didn’t, _‘but there aren’t that many Welsh football anthems.’_

_‘What about “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”? Or “Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau”?’_

_‘What was that? It sounds like some sort of disease!’_

The audience laughed, as did Arthur.

_‘It’s the national anthem.’_

_‘Can you sing it?’_ Ross enquired. _‘Do you even speak Welsh?’_

_‘Nac ydw.’_

_‘Oh, wow… what does that mean?’_

_‘No.’_

Laughter again from the audience.

_‘Well, pretty much everyone knows who you are by now, but for those who don’t… you play football, don’t you?’_

_‘Yes, I’m a striker for Camelot.’_

_‘And a fan of the club, I hear?’_

_‘Oh, absolutely. When I started playing as a boy, that’s exactly where I wanted to end up.’_

_‘Now forgive me… I’m not an expert on football, but… Camelot aren’t historically a brilliant club.’_

_‘No, that’s an understatement,’_ Arthur smiled sardonically.

_‘So, what attracted you to them in the first place; they’re not exactly your local team.’_

_‘No, my local team is Mold Alexandra.’_

_‘Mold? You’re from a place called Mold?’_

_‘Don’t knock it. It’s alright. But yeah, I was a fan of Camelot because of my dad.’_

_‘Can we just talk about your dad for a second? I think we’ve got a picture of him here…’_

A picture appeared of a young Uther with distinctly late-80s hair posing in Camelot’s hideous gold and blue chequered away shirt. Gwen forgot to stifle a laugh. Uther shifted in his seat.

_‘…he was arguably the best player Camelot ever had. Top goalscorer, most goals per appearance, there’s a whole range of stats on him. Is that a lot to live up to?’_

_‘I guess so, but even though he’s my dad, that’s not my benchmark for how I should be doing. You’ve got to play by your own standard, otherwise you get complacent. Not that I’m playing much at the moment.’_

_‘Hence why you’re here.’_

_‘Yeah.’_

_‘Can we talk about that, the whole Brokeback Camelot scandal?’_

_‘Yeah, why not? I’d imagine people are fed up with hearing other people’s crap. Sorry, can I say that, crap?’_

_‘You can say crap, you can say bollocks, you can say fucking rubbish if you want, just tell me… these rumours, is there truth in any of it?’_

_‘I am gay if that’s what you’re asking.’_

There was a spontaneous round of applause. In the living room, Arthur was feeling self-conscious. Uther was a little thirsty.

_‘Listen to that, this crowd are certainly behind you. What do you say to that?’_

_‘I’m very grateful; I’m not sure I’ll still have a career in football at the end of this interview, but I think that’s already been taken away from me. Football is what my life has been about; I want people to realise I’m not just gay, I do play football.’_

_‘You play football very well indeed if I may say so myself.’_

_‘You’re a flatterer.’_

_‘No it’s true; isn’t it true ladies and gentlemen?’_

More applause.

_‘Ah, thank you. As I was saying, I do play football, and I want to keep playing until I drop dead and they bury me in the six-yard box, you know? But my father has taken it upon himself to see that it isn’t an option any more.’_

_‘That hardly seems fair.’_

_‘He is of the opinion that the emotional issues relating to my sexuality mean that I won’t be able to perform on the pitch.’_

_‘Do you think that’s the case?’_

_‘No: it’s fucking rubbish.’_

Smiles all round; the audience seemed to have found this last remark amusing.

_‘Do you think he might see this interview and perhaps be swayed?’_

_‘I think it’s worth a try, isn’t it? After all, that’s the real reason I came on the show. He’s more of a talker than a listener; I’ve tried explaining in person but it hasn’t worked. I need him to understand, not just because I want him to let me play… but because I need my dad.’_

_‘Wow. Real honesty there. It’s been lovely talking to you and to have met you and even though I don’t understand football, I’m sure you’ll be a real inspiration to a lot of people.’_

_‘Thank you.’_

_‘Ladies and gentlemen: Arthur Pendragon!’_

There was a soft noise as the set switched off.

Uther stood up.

‘I think I have an apology to make.’

~ ~ ~

Uther’s apology came, in part, in the form of a start against Sunderland, on the last day of the season. Camelot were lying in twelfth place, and a good result could give them the first top-half finish in their history, and the highest finish for a Wolverhampton-based club in thirty years.

‘What’s he doing here?’ snapped Valiant as Arthur entered the changing room that afternoon.

‘What does it look like he’s doing here?’ snapped Kai sarcastically. ‘He’s come to skip around and whip us with towels.’

‘You’re ten times more likely to do that than any of us!’ Arthur grinned back at Kai.

‘I know!’ laughed the German, snapping his own towel against Valiant’s unsuspecting behind.

Valiant clenched his jaw. He couldn’t take this shit. He thought he’d got rid of Arthur for good, and now the thought of changing in front of him made Valiant feel ill. Why was everyone else playing along, acting as if it was okay?

Around him, the buzz of the changing rooms was as it had always been. No awkwardness; every last one of them had fallen back into step with their old banter and behaviour so easily. Did they not realise what was among them?

Valiant felt as if the world had gone mad around him. This was wrong, so wrong. There was only one thing left to do; he stormed out of the changing rooms and deep into the stadium’s basement.

He knocked before entering.

‘Mr Draig?’ he asked.

The old man looked up.

‘Valiant,’ he smiled. ‘How can I help?’

‘I made an internal complaint a few weeks ago- it seems to have been overlooked.’

‘Ah,’ Draig smiled, going over to a filing cabinet. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

He found the report in question and looked over it.

‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m sure we can sort this out.’

He punched an internal number into his desk telephone and waited for an answer.

‘Hello. Could you come down? Bring your basic kit. Mr Valiant.’

Draig leaned back and smiled at the puzzled Valiant. Shortly, there was a rap on the door, and the team medic, Gaius, entered.

‘You summoned me?’ he enquired.

‘Bloods on Mr Valiant, please. Category fours. As quick as you can.’

Valiant looked at Draig curiously as Gaius prepared his kit.

‘Are you sure? Nothing happened.’

‘Nothing?’ Draig asked. ‘So you withdraw the complaint?’

‘Oh, well of course _that_ happened. I just mean, no… stuff.’

Draig nodded.

‘You understand we have to take precautions, though?’

‘Oh,’ Valiant conceded. ‘I suppose so.’

He sat patiently as Gaius collected the sample.

‘I’ll take this across to the hospital myself, Kilgarrah,’ Gaius said. ‘Can’t waste any time with something this serious.’

Valiant watched the medic leave.

‘So what now?’ he asked.

‘We should have the results in a couple of hours. In time for the start of the match,’ Draig looked at Valiant searchingly. ‘You understand we can’t go accusing people of things without all the evidence.’

‘Oh, no,’ Valiant agreed. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

‘The pleasure is mine,’ the chairman smiled.

‘You won’t find anything, you know,’ Valiant offered.

‘You never know, Mr Valiant. It’s remarkable sometimes what the mind chooses to forget.’

~ ~ ~

Half an hour from kick-off, Uther Pendragon stormed into the changing room.

‘Because of the selfishness of one of you,’ he growled, the room falling silent instantaneously, ‘I am a man down for this afternoon’s match.’

There was an awkward tension as each man looked at his neighbours to try and work out who it was.

‘Mr Valiant?’ Uther’s eyes bored through the man. Valiant hadn’t been expecting this. ‘Would you care to explain your actions?’

‘It was for the good of the team,’ he replied, steadfast.

Uther nearly exploded.

‘How on Earth is _this_ ,’ he handed Valiant a piece of paper, ‘for the good of the team?’

Valiant looked over the paper.

Blood tests.

Mr S. Valiant.

Then, in bold, around half way down the page: Cocaine- positive.

He hadn’t thought. They’d lured him into a trap.

‘This is a fix!’ he cried. ‘Favouritism, that’s all this is. I would never have been tested for cocaine if he wasn’t your son!’

He prodded an angry finger at Arthur. The room grew cold.

‘Val,’ Leon started slowly. ‘What the fuck has you taking coke got to do with Arthur?’

Valiant looked around him.

‘You don’t see it?’ he asked. ‘He’s not right. I put in a complaint, and this is the thanks I get?’

He waved the paper in the air. All around him, eyes were on him, looking at him as if he were mad.

He wasn’t. He’d been trying to help. Just trying to help.

‘So this is why you’ve been so on-edge,’ Leon breathed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t spot it.’

‘I’m on edge because of him!’ he gestured wildly at Arthur again.

Nobody reacted. They just carried on looking at Valiant. Some looked on with pity, some with anger, confusion and a tiny bit of betrayal. Uther’s expression was one of a man about to sentence the recipient to death.

‘An appointment has been made with Mr Draig for you and your agent next Thursday at two. It would be unwise not to go.’

Valiant allowed himself to be escorted from the premises, the reality of the likely end of his career sinking in.

~ ~ ~

‘It was nice for Uther to get us tickets, wasn’t it?’ Merlin said, perched on the edge of his dark red plastic seat.

‘Believe me, Merlin,’ Gwen smiled, ‘you have no idea how happy I was when I found out I was going to be spending my Saturday afternoon sat on a plastic chair, outside, engulfed by the smell of concrete, lager and testosterone.’

Merlin was oblivious; the match had kicked off.

Less than ten minutes later, while Merlin was desperately trying to deal with the cup of lemonade he’d very nearly spilt, he heard the accomplished roar of the away stand.

How could he have been so stupid? He should never take his eyes off the pitch.

Merlin sat back in his seat grimly. A couple of minutes later, Sunderland’s Alan Hutton tripped Bedi Maréchal in the penalty area, in what he would later describe as a moment of insanity.

The referee pointed to the penalty spot without hesitation, and the entirety of the stadium stood up to watch the shot.

‘If everyone sat down,’ Gwen suggested, ‘we’d all be able to see as well as if we were all stood up.’

An old man in the row in front turned around to smile sympathetically, before helping his young granddaughter stand on her chair.

The whistle blew, and Gwaine’s penalty thundered into the goal at a speed which very nearly took Sunderland keeper Craig Gordon’s hand off. The home fans erupted.

Gwen turned to Merlin just in time to see the last of the gold fade from his eyes as he pulled her into a jumping hug.

‘Calm down, Merlin,’ she chided gently as they folded their seats back down.

‘This is amazing, we’re back in it,’ Merlin grinned, rocking back and forth in his seat. ‘Why should I calm down?’

It was something to do with him being some sort of warlock and making the game ridiculous and faintly dangerous, but Gwen couldn’t really find the words. She just shook her head instead.

Fortunately, the equaliser was enough to settle Merlin’s nerves, and the game made it into the last fifteen minutes without any further obvious magical intervention. When it did happen, Gwen was surprised she’d never been aware of Merlin’s magic before.

Craig Gordon appeared to stand stock still as Camelot’s defensive midfielder Luke Butler toe-poked the ball past him to make it 2-1, and score his debut Camelot goal. Merlin was euphoric. Gwen was wary.

A minute later, Gwaine was substituted off for striker Thomas Lincoln.

‘4-4-2?’ roared a large man to Gwen’s left. ‘What have you done with Uther Pendragon?’

The fans around him started to laugh, before breaking into a spontaneous chorus of _Uther, Uther, do you know it’s 4-4-2?_

Caught up in the reverie and finding that she was singing herself hoarse, Gwen had to think that maybe Merlin had a point about football. Still, she would never concede it.

She turned to look at her friend at the precise second his excited eyes glinted gold. The Camelot fans started to roar at the referee, and Gwen could hardly bring herself to look at the pitch.

One of the Sunderland fans was being shown a red card as Bedi picked himself up, mercifully unhurt.

‘Merlin!’ she snapped. ‘Calm down, there’s less than ten minutes left; Camelot have basically won.’

‘Gwen, it’s not over yet, anything could happen!’ Merlin pleaded. ‘Why are you so fussed, anyway?’

‘You’re making me tense,’ Gwen lied.

Merlin laughed to himself.

Shortly before time, there was another red card for Sunderland. As they moved, two dots lost in a sea of Camelot fans, Gwen decided to confront him.

‘You know your… superstition, about Camelot always winning when you watch?’

‘Ar,’ Merlin replied.

‘What would you say if I told you it was true?’

Merlin looked at her.

‘Well, of course I know it’s true. I was there.’

Gwen blustered, relieved.

‘Oh, you know? Thank God. Here was me thinking you were unwittingly using magic on random footballers!’

She laughed to herself as Merlin fixed her with an ever more quizzical glance.

‘Sorry?’ he asked.

‘You know, the thing, where your eyes light up and Camelot goals go in.’

Merlin dragged her out of the moving crowd.

‘Please,’ he said slowly, ‘tell me more about _the thing_. I’m not sure I follow.’

Gwen finally realised that their lines may have been crossed, and that she may not have revealed Merlin’s magic to him in the most tactful manner.

‘Ah. Well, Merlin, you have magic. Real, actual magic. Which, for reasons best known to yourself, you only ever use to aid your football team.’

Merlin looked at her for a moment.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because your eyes turn gold whenever you seem to use it.’

‘Ah. I should probably learn to be a bit more subtle.’

Gwen smiled.

‘To be honest, that’s why I told you. I don’t want you causing an upset.’

Merlin sighed. As much as he’d always joked about it, finding that he had actual magical abilities was quite a surprise.

‘I think we should go see someone.’

~ ~ ~

‘Kilgarrah,’ Merlin popped his head around the door.

‘I am quite busy Merlin, paving the way for Mr Valiant’s exit.’

‘Exit?’ Merlin asked, trying to disguise the joy in his voice.

‘Breach of contract,’ Draig replied. ‘Though, try not to tell too many people. We are trying to keep it out of the press until next week. What was it you wanted?’

‘Ah. This is Gwen,’ Merlin offered, gesturing to his friend. ‘She told me something surprising.’

‘That you are a warlock?’ the chairman asked.

Merlin felt ready to consign this to a drawer marked ‘One of Those Days’.

‘More or less,’ Merlin shrugged.

‘And why is it you came to see me?’

‘Because,’ Merlin steadied himself, ‘you seem to have an office full of what appear to be magical artefacts and sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I swear you have a tail. And can fly.’

Draig chuckled.

‘I do not have a tail. And I cannot fly. I am not a dragon.’

‘Oh,’ Merlin replied, feeling suddenly foolish at having mistaken an old eccentric for a giant, winged, mythological beast.

‘Let me finish, Merlin. I am not a dragon _any more_. What you see is a shadow of my form in a previous life. You, too, are but a shadow of a previous self.’

‘I’m alright,’ Merlin scowled, suddenly winded.

‘As magic fades from the world, yes, you are _alright_. Still, your magic is what binds you to Arthur, and you need it. Try to keep it under control,’ Draig sighed. ‘Incidentally, your uncle is quite the book collector. I think browsing his library at some point could be of benefit. Now, go. I need to figure out how much money we’re going to get out of Valiant.’

Merlin, a little bewildered, didn’t need telling twice.

~ ~ ~

‘Gwen,’ Merlin asked as they walked towards Lance’s house, ‘do you think I should tell Arthur? About the magic?’

‘Yes,’ Gwen said simply. ‘If you know, he should know.’

‘And how do I spring it on him?’

‘Hmm. Not my problem,’ Gwen grinned, pressing Lance’s doorbell.

There was a pause as whoever was on the outside of the door checked the peephole before the door flew open and Merlin was wrapped up in a hug by a euphoric Arthur.

Gwen stepped around them to go and find Lance.

‘Arthur,’ Merlin began. ‘I’m magic.’

‘Yes you are,’ the other man confirmed, pulling him inside.

‘No, I mean it. I watch the football and stuff happens.’

‘Of course stuff happens. It’s football.’

Merlin had thought that this might be Arthur’s reaction- a complete misunderstanding of what was going on.

‘No, seriously, Arthur, I just have to picture a goal and it goes in.’

‘That’s just intuition, Merlin. Have you been at the lager? Look at this.’

In place of a dining room table, Lance had probably the most magnificent thing Merlin had ever seen.

‘It’s custom-built, Merlin,’ Arthur breathed.

‘Table football?!’ Gwen exclaimed. ‘You’re all getting worked up over some table football game?’

‘Gwen!’ Merlin chastised. ‘This isn’t table football; that’s for Neanderthals. This requires skill, and control, and dexterity. It’s Subbuteo.’

Both Lance and Arthur had chimed in on the last word. Gwen thought they must have joined a cult.

‘Look at this,’ Lance called them over to one side of the table, pressing in a panel. It popped out to reveal a drawer with, ‘All the greatest football teams of the past fifty years. In miniature, Subbuteo-player form.’

‘Alright,’ Arthur grinned. ‘So what’s Wolves 1979-80 doing in here?’

He pointed at the tiny label next to the gold-clad figures.

‘I’ll have you know, Wolves 1979-80 will beat any team you care to pit against them.’

‘Alright,’ Arthur grinned, browsing the selection. ‘Camelot 1997-98. Complete with Uther Pendragon.’

He held the tiny, captains-armband wearing figure aloft. The doorbell rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ Gwen smiled, glad for company that wasn’t football-obsessed _boys_.

She had no luck; it was Leon, Gwaine and Percy at the door, and they were just as enthralled with the Subbuteo set.

Lance was very good at Subbuteo, probably explaining why he’d had a table made. He couldn’t seem to score against Arthur, though.

‘It might be defective,’ he shrugged, looking at his number nine.

‘Possibly,’ Arthur said, looking at Merlin curiously. ‘Or it could be that a bad workman blames his tools.’

‘That’s fighting talk considering it’s nil-nil.’

‘Won’t be for long,’ Arthur smiled, idly flicking both his Uther Pendragon figure and the ball into the shooting area in front of goal. ‘You ready?’

Lance gripped the handle on his goalkeeper, and scooted it around.

‘This is ridiculous. Has nobody noticed?’ Gwen asked, as Arthur rubbed his hands together, readying himself for the shot.

He flicked, Lance’s keeper dived and the comparatively enormous plastic ball scooted across the goalline.

‘Ha!’ Arthur cried, as the built-in timer signified the end of the game.

Lance silenced it.

‘There will be a rematch. And I will win.’

‘Not if Merlin’s watching,’ Arthur eyed his boyfriend, before gesturing that they move to another room.

‘So it’s actual magic?’ Arthur asked, while Leon and Percival started their own game in the next room.

‘Apparently so. I only found out today,’ Merlin explained.

‘How did you work it out?’

‘Gwen told me. My eyes kept shining gold, apparently, just before people decided to kick Bedi for no reason.’

‘He said it wasn’t his day,’ Arthur smiled. ‘This is mad.’

‘I know,’ Merlin nodded. ‘I think so too.’

‘Promise me something, Merlin,’ Arthur said finally.

‘What?’

‘If you can, try not to use it on me. I like to think I’m good at football, not that I have a warlock for a best friend.’

Merlin smiled.

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’

‘But if someone goes in for a sliding tackle on you and bursts into flames, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Arthur looked shocked.

‘Can you do that?’

‘I doubt it,’ Merlin said. ‘The dragon who lives under the stadium thinks I’m only _alright_.’

Arthur wisely opted not to ask.

~ ~ ~

Merlin hadn’t been to the new Wembley before. Hunith had fussed over him before the trip, making sure she printed out all the references for his train tickets and hotel reservation.

‘Here,’ she said, handing him a squashy package. ‘Your dad wanted you to have this for a special occasion. I thought about your eighteenth, but this is probably more what he meant. Either that, or your wedding day, but I’d be mortified.’

A replica Wolves shirt. Balinor’s old Wolves shirt.

‘It’s a masterpiece in golden polyester,’ Merlin finally breathed.

The black wolf logo scowled at him.

‘I’ve heard that they’re calling old stuff vintage now, so you’ll be in fashion,’ Hunith smiled. ‘He must have been younger than you when he had this shirt. He never bought a Camelot replica, so this’ll have to do you.’

He put it on over his t-shirt. He hadn’t worn a replica shirt since he was a child, but this was special.

‘Thanks.’

‘Go, or you’ll miss your train.’

Merlin obediently went, despite there being a full hour before his train left, and it taking just fifteen minutes by bus.

Merlin would walk, though. It was bright and not too warm that day and Merlin wanted to relish it. He had tickets to the FA Cup final, and win or lose it would be amazing.

~ ~ ~

Although Merlin technically had tickets for first class, even that carriage had been flooded with an immense number of Camelot fans. Some didn’t even have tickets for the game, but were just going down for the atmosphere.

One thick-necked man near the end of the carriage was leading the chanting, much to the chagrin of the few commuters who had failed to realise that this was firstly, the most important day in Camelot history (again), and secondly, a Saturday, and that their bosses shouldn’t be working them so hard.

Merlin joined in with _We’re the best behaved supporters in the league_ , _Scarlet and gold_ and the wordless Liquidator before their carriage choirmaster started to get inventive.

Merlin often wondered how new chants got started. It turned out this bloke made them up. He’d strained to hear the words of _He’s strong, he’s fast, he takes it up…_ before he realised he knew where it was going, and he certainly wouldn’t be joining in.

So, he spent around half of that journey facing determinedly out of the window, and the other half, after being identified as “that bloke”, being dragged into the gangway and loveably, if embarrassingly, quizzed by the carriage and invited to join in with the newly made-up songs.

It could have been worse, for certain.

‘Excuse me,’ someone tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Yes?’

‘Ar, it’s him,’ the man turned to look at his friend. ‘That’s the bloke.’

Merlin tried to go back to the window, but the friend had already made the carriage aware of his presence.

‘Someone get that kid a can!’ shouted the sort-of choirmaster.

So, Merlin found himself, Special Brew in hand, in the gangway of the 9.41 to Euston. It turned out he had been identified using someone’s home-printed t-shirt as reference.

 _Arthur:_ it read _Don’t C.P. him; fuck me_. Which was a fairly bold statement to make in a crowd of slightly-drunk football fans. Then again, he must have been at least six and a half feet tall.

Merlin was happy to join in with the freshly-offered _He’s one for the lads_ , but drew the line at some of the more crude Arthur-themed songs.

‘So what do you think we should sing?’ the thick-necked choirmaster asked over the heads of the other fans.

‘Ah,’ Merlin scratched his head. ‘Something more politically correct?’

Laughter. They weren’t going to go for that.

~ ~ ~

The stadium was vast. The old Wembley, enlarged by having been kept safe in the memory of a small boy, had been huge, but the new Wembley was ridiculous.

Arriving at Gate N, Merlin was dismayed to read the words “Gate F” on his ticket. He might have failed A-level English, but he knew enough to work out he was nowhere where he needed to be.

Around him, people milled around in all directions, the occasional fluorescent-jacketed staff member edging away when it looked like, for the fourteenth time that day, they were about to be asked how the alphabet worked.

Eventually, he made it through to security, where he presented a staff member with the entire contents of his tote bag- a pair of boxers and a condom.

Then he was free, free to figure out exactly which staircase he should be using, launch himself up some concrete steps, trip over several pairs of legs and finally fold down his seat. He breathed it in. He could have sworn it was even bigger on the inside.

~ ~ ~

Not for the first time in his life, Merlin watched from the stands as a single penalty stood between Camelot F.C. and the greatest moment in their short history.

The game had been closely fought, and although it had finished nil-nil, had been anything if not boring.

West Brom midfielder Cedric had been denied by an incredible stretch by Von Blumenthal, and when Muirden attempted a two-footed tackle on Percy Fisher, it was not the Camelot man who came off worst.

Arthur’s walk to the penalty spot seemed to take forever. Wembley held its breath as he placed the ball on the spot, gently screwing it into the ground.

Merlin couldn’t watch. He was terrified. Football wasn’t just a game, and this wasn’t just football any more. He loved Arthur, and wanted more than anything for him to win the match. He’d never forgive himself if they lost this, not now. Still, he couldn’t watch.

The referee’s whistle chirped, Arthur began his run-up and Merlin covered his eyes. He didn’t want to believe in his magic any more. He wanted to believe in Arthur.

In reality it was over in a second, less than a heartbeat between the tiny thud of boot on ball and the cacophony of triumphant roars which drowned all thoughts out of Merlin’s mind. He knew what he thought that meant, but what if he was wrong?

Heartbreak. It was something he could never get used to.

Then, the hand of a complete stranger on his shoulder snapped him out of it.

“We won! We won mate, we won!”

Suddenly the noise, the spectacle burst through Merlin’s defences, and he was overwhelmed by it. A bouncing, singing, laughing mass of red and gold surrounded him, stretching out in all directions.  The roar of a thousand different anthems being torn from thousands of lungs, the men, women and children of Wolverhampton and the tiny suburb of Camelot giving in to their emotions.

Below on the pitch, a bundle of footballers congratulated each other. From the bottom of the pile, a familiar blond head emerged, looked Merlin’s way and mouthed a single gleeful word:

_Albion._

~ ~ ~

Within a week, Albion’s rich owner, not satisfied with a mere Premiership trophy, had sacked King. With a slightly more sportsmanlike manager in charge, West Brom went from being the villains of the Premier League to just another team in the Big Four.

Before all that, though, Merlin got a phone call.

‘Gwen?’

‘Merlin. Are you busy?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Then meet me outside the Three Ravens. Bring Arthur, bring your mum, bring whoever.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get there; bye!’

So, within fifteen minutes, there were a good twenty of them gathered on the corner in front of the pub. Gwen clapped her hands for attention.

‘So, last week they read out Morgana’s will, and… well, I got the pub. So, if you’d like to come in for a drink, I’d be more than happy to serve you,’ she smiled awkwardly, ‘for free, because my license hasn’t come through yet.’

Gwen turned the key in the lock, and they all piled into the pub. It was strange for those who had known Morgana, coming back to the pub that had once been hers. It was also right, though.

It was the pub that had made Merlin mad enough to kiss Arthur in the first place. It was where Gwen had met Lance. It was where a tipsy Percival had come out to Leon. Yes, it was the place where Morgana had taken a number of photographs, resulting in Arthur’s subsequent outing, but perhaps that was a good thing.

The final taboo had been broken. It wasn’t a happily ever after, but it was a landmark. Years afterwards, Arthur would face abuse from the terraces, most light-hearted but some less so. Still, Arthur and Merlin’s relationship had been better for it.

‘Aw, there’s a picture of you and Arthur in the paper,’ Gwen smiled as she passed Merlin the eight-page Camelot victory pull-out from the local paper.

There was indeed, alongside one of an angry-looking Valiant.

‘It says here Valiant was doing coke!’ Merlin gasped.

Gwen nodded.

‘Lance told me. Leon blames himself apparently; Valiant had been unusually short-tempered for months. They’d just put it down to his disagreement with Arthur. Because Arthur never said anything, they never realised there was more to it.’

‘Doesn’t excuse him, though.’

‘No,’ Gwen shrugged, ‘but the ten million pounds he’s been forced to pay the club might help ease the pain.’

‘Ten million?’ Merlin gaped.

Gwen smiled, before helping someone to another glass of wine.

Merlin saw Will at a table in the corner.

‘I got a new job,’ he smiled at Merlin, swilling the last of his Guinness.

‘Congratulations; where?’

‘The Castle. Ground staff manager.’

‘Isn’t that Dagonet’s job?’ Merlin frowned.

‘No, it’s mine,’ Will stretched out with satisfaction. ‘Want your old job back?’

‘Actually, Will, I’d rather watch matches from now on. But thanks.’

Will went off in search of another pint as Arthur slid in beside Merlin.

‘Did I just hear you turn down a job? I hope you’re not expecting me to let you sit at home spending all my hard-earned money.’

‘Hard-earned?’ Merlin choked. ‘Actually, Gwen offered me something here. Voluntary to start with, but paid eventually. While I’m still living with mum, I don’t really have any living costs, so it should be okay.’

‘About that… you wouldn’t really have any living costs if you moved in with me, either.’

Arthur looked at Merlin and waited for the offer to settle.

‘I mean,’ he continued. ‘My flat’s the same size as your mum’s, but a little nearer the stadium. Only one flight of stairs, and a lift if you’re feeling lazy. I even have my own microwave.’

Merlin smiled.

‘My mum refuses to get one on principle.’

‘I know. What do you say?’

Merlin said nothing, but smiled like an idiot. Perhaps they couldn’t have a happily ever after, but this was a good start.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a single-parter side story/sequel lined up already so keep your eyes peeled. I will one day do a sequel, but not yet because I'm exhausted. If you have any ideas for sequels/side stories you'd like to see, please, I'd be more than happy to hear from you. Also, if anyone fancied writing NC-17 scenes for this series, either het or slash, please do: it's a flaw of mine that I haven't the stomach for it. Just let me beta.


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